Hot and Cold
by samepaverge
Summary: Bloody wonderful, Vimes thought. Not only is it a party, it's a ridiculous costume party, and he wasn't invited as the Commander of the City Watch but as the Duke of Ankh. Updated.
1. Prologue

A/N: OC overkill, I know. Patience? Rewarded? Soon?

**Hot and Cold **by samepaverge

**Prologue**

Strawhat Wishbone, of the Wishbone Box Company, took his final evening rounds of the manufactory. The whole thing was falling apart, he knew, and he had most likely buggered it beyond repair, but there was just some things you had to do even though everything is going to shit. This was one of those things.

He had been making his way back to his office when he was seized with a sharp pain on his left arm that radiated towards his chest. He doubled over from the pain and fell onto a discarded pile of boxes. There was no one to call for help; everyone had gone home. The pain lasted for a couple of minutes, whereby he took his last breath before espying a character looming before him.

STRAWHAT WISHBONE.

"You're not what I think you are, are you?" He replied, clutching at his chest and finding nothing to clutch.

I AM.

"Oh," he said resignedly. "Who's going to mind my family then? And this whole dump? Should they just let it all go to blazes, eh?"

IT IS IN MY EXPERIENCE THAT THINGS INEVITABLY HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES.

Strawhat scoffed. "Right, got nothing worry about, then."

THAT IS RIGHT.

Next door, Angela "Little Angie" Wishbone looked up from her evening reading, 'Ankh-Morpork: A Citie of Commerce', and felt something akin to a twig that has just been vacated by a medium-sized bird. She shrugged and opened a page of 'The Merchant's Way: Economic Warfare for the Modern Times' and settled comfortably in her bed.


	2. Chapter 1

**Hot and Cold** by samepaverge

**Chapter 1**

The Wishbone Box Company had its headquarters**(****1)** located at Lockbee Street in Ankh-Morpork. Its previous proprietor, Strawhat Wishbone, died a month ago in a fit of ill-humours and word around the manufactory was that he took the box company with him to the grave. It was not without a grain of truth, for even before Mr. Strawhat had shuffled off his mortal coil, he had the company backed into a corner, and when he did, everything was in shambles. Angry investors and equally irate creditors had to be placated with promises that were more empty than anything. Everyone looked to Mr. Strawhat's second in command, a zombie named Amicus Wellerby, but when he was called upon to helm the ship, they had discovered that it was already abandoned, with a note**(****2)** on the bed inside the empty quarters.

The question that remains then, is that of succession. One would naturally turn to the first-born**(3)**. They are, after all, said to be the most responsible in a group of people of similar parentage. They also have natural leadership skills honed by agressive persuasion and diplomatic argumentation**(4)** that would be useful in the cut-throat world of trade and production. Superiority of age, it is said, is one of the most obvious and visible signs of maturity, as is evident to anyone who has met an older person and has either been bored or scared.

The first-born of the Wishbone family is, unfortunately, in a coffin one-metre in length and six feet underneath the Small Gods Cemetery, his only means of identification being a nondescript slab of stone etched with his name (Partyhat Wishbone), date of birth (6th OF GRUNE), date of death (SOMETIME AROUND SEKTOBER) and the family motto: BUGGEREM. Alas, the only diplomatic argumentation young Partyhat learned was delineating property lines between himself and opportunistic maggots, ultimately losing everything to the maggots, because they had a very good lawyer, but most of their luck was on Partyhat's weak legal defense.

Duncehat Wishbone, the second child, was decidedly less dead than his elder brother, and has grown up to be on the wrong side of thirty. He was, despite his name, an intelligent enough young man, when he could be arsed to it, but Duncehat spends most of his time as a high-risk trader of feather dusters at Pseudopolis and wreaking havoc with the hearts of ladies on that part of the country. He is what is known as a local Cassava, but has been despairing these past few weeks because of a certain Miss Hennrieta, a beautiful but thorny young woman who knows that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach**(5)**. She also knows that the way to a man's money pouch is through his back pocket, and so she is partly the reason why codpieces are in vogue at that part of Pseudopolis.

Hennrieta, of course, is not her real name, but she only reveals what she wants people to see. Once, Duncehat held out a bouquet of dusters for her, but the only thanks he got was a careless cut to the arm, and a rich laugh while he bled. Duncehat's heart fluttered at that full, trilling sound, and he knew he had Met His Match. It could simply be said that Duncehat's schedule is packed, and his current life goals include retailing dusting agents and snagging the heart of a woman who, legend had it, kept hearts preserved in jars of fluid.

The third son, Hardhat Wishbone, was unusual. Thing is, nobody quite knew what he did. Last Offle he was a writer of some sort, a 'diarist' who would expose everything that needs to be exposed about Ankh-Morpork, the only problem being that Ankh-Morporkians are more than aware of the state of their city, and no one really needed to know that the river Ankh was causing the bloody stench, because every half-lung reminds them of that fact**(6)**. Hardhat had since abandoned the vocation and had taken on being a Bungler, which involves following individuals who are more than capable of doing things on their own, and bungling things for them. He worked for Mr. Quell Enoch of the Thieves' Guild, and had done his job so well that he was more than suprised and angry to receive a note of his termination. But the third son took the family motto to heart, and was more than comfortable with his new vocation as an Assessor of Local Brewed Products and is dutifully present at his office desk at the Mended Drum with other Assessors.

The three sons, Partyhat, Duncehat and Hardhat, are decidedly set in their ways and are all doing rather well in life, but as it is, the group is not complete, for old Strawhat and his wife had another child, and for the first time, a daughter. Angela Wishbone was, obviously, the youngest of three brothers, and had grown up to be a bony young woman of twenty-two. Little Angie, as she was once called, keeps her hair in a bun and wears a nondescript dark blue dress that gives one the feeling of an oncoming spell of rain. She was not exceedingly pretty, nor rich, nor spirited, and therefore had nothing convenient to recommend her. 'Who would take on old Strawhat's daughter, eh?' was a little joke around Lockbee and had spread out on the other streets, even on the ones that had no idea who Strawhat and his daughter was. One could actually tell if one is in Lockbee Street by asking that question. A mocking guffaw would mean yes, while a response of 'What the bloody hell is a Strawhat daughter? Buggeroff!' would mean that, no, you are quite far from your destination.

Little Angie wakes up at five-thirty in the morning, makes breakfast, does stretches and then stitches. At seven Hardhat comes home from work, very exhausted, you could tell because he couldn't walk straight. She puts Hardhat to bed, then does more stitches until Pa wakes up, eats breakfast and leaves for the manufactory next door. Mum wakes up at eight thirty, better get sweeping or else. At ten, lunch has to be made, at one, mum sends her out to get several bolts of whatever fabric the old lady fancies. By evening, make dinner. Read for the rest of the night until the candles run out.

That was Little Angie's routine, everyone knew that. In fact the whole family set the time to her little habits. But for two years, the Wishbone household have noticed that she was shirking her work. Not a biggun, mind you, but little ones, five minutes off of this or that, and she began to have a whole chunk of time to herself, time in which she was neither seen nor heard inside the house, and as time passed by, Little Angie seemed to change. She insisted on being called Angela now, and had started using words like 'interminable' and 'perspicacious', even scarier ones like 'fiscal responsibility' and 'credit'. Her gait, which was gangling, had slowly transformed into a confident stride that _might_ get her out of the Shades unscathed. When before she looked down when she walked, she now looked up with a glower that changed the meaning of 'Who would take on old Strawhat's daughter, eh?', where the answer now involved bony knuckles and displaced blood. Angela's bun was noticeably tighter. She still swept the floor at eight-thirty, but in such a way that made you ask no questions about it.

Old Pa Strawhat was found lying down on a discarded pile of boxes. It was Amicus who found him. When news of his passing came, Duncehat came home from Pseudopolis, Hardhat worked overtime, and Angela set the table minus one.

When the old man was laid down to rest and the fresh earth shoveled back, Duncehat turned to Angela and Hardhat to ask the most important question: Who's taking over this whole box thing now, eh?

_**1 **Despite the absence of any other quarters to speak of, anywhere_

_**2 **The note was nothing interesting of course, as it simply detailed that Mr. Wellerby had urgent matters to attend to at Genua, nevermind that Mr. Wellerby had 'died' a hundred years ago and is survived by virtually no one. _

_**3 **The thought of Mrs. Wishbone running the company is horrendous to Mrs. Wishbone. Any mention of it would be followed by an angry tirade consisting mostly of the tribulations of motherhood followed by a copper pot of high velocity and missile precision. Does it ever miss? Don't try to find out._

_**4 **bullying and duping, respectively_

_**5 **Incidentally, the men who find this out of Miss Hennrieta are all dead._

_**6 **Common knowledge: it is medically unsound to take a 'lungful' in Ankh-Morpork. It constitutes more than twelve percent of the city's mortality rate. Pamphlets are still circulated by the city's Centre for Illnesse Prevention: Be Carefull, don't have a lungful!_


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: Whaddya know, I made it with only 1 footnote! Just had to get it out of my system, I guess. No Vetinari still, I'm sorry. But in the next chapter, I promise!

**Hot and Cold: A Romance by samepaverge**

**Chapter 2**

The Wishbone House, located adjacent to the manufactory, had seen better days. It was built in a style favored by the noveau-riche, but slowly disintegrated in the manner of the noveau-poore. The woodwork was rotting in places, a few windows had become warped and main door had to be kicked open and kicked closed. Cheap repairs had been keeping the house upright for a few years.

Duncehat Wishbone shielded himself from the rain with a sheet of canvas. He had a bag of figgins under his arm and when he reached up to knock on the door, the bag fell with a splosh.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, picking up the bag and cradling it up the other arm. He knocked again. "Can someone open the godsdamn door? It's pissing out here!"

A muffled voice from the inside yelled back, telling him to kick the door open. Duncehat gave a strong punt and the door flew open and banged on the wall, sending a jar from a high shelf to come crashing down.

"Well, there goes the pear jam," said Angela to the pile of goo. "'Twas good while it lasted." She spared a glance at Duncehat, who was looking flummoxed at the door. "Well don't let the rain in you idiot," she continued, "and take off them boots." She strode to the door, raised a leg, coaxed the door halfway with a foot and kicked it closed. The remaining jars on the shelf barely moved.

Duncehat stood by, looking astonished. "How come-?"

"Months of training," said Angela curtly. "Set the figgins on the table."

Duncehat took them out one by one and placed them on a plate. "A bit soggy, sorry," he said.

While Angela busied herself with a pot of tea by the fire, Duncehat took off the canvas and shoved it in a corner. He seemed to be looking for something in the room before he said, "You don't happen to know where the mirror in my old room went now, do you?"

"Mum had it moved into their-I mean her-room months ago," she said, without looking up from the brew. "It's a bit cracked now."

Duncehat left the room and Angela smiled to herself. You were always the vain one, Duncehat, she thought. At least he was the only one who could afford to be vain. Duncehat had the looks in the family, he was fairly smart too, if he could be arsed to it, but it was his features that had people turning their heads. He was handsome in a washed-out negative fashion, and had the appearance of a man who could not possibly be in a respectable profession. Duncehat probably thought he was so clever by evading all questions regarding his life in Pseudopolis, but everyone knew that he was smuggler. Angela thought it was a little ridiculous that he had no idea that nobody could care less what it was he did, business was business after all.

She set the teapot on the table and took the crockery from a creaky cabinet. Of course one of the cups had a chip and another had a missing handle, consistency is key-her father always said, whether consistently bad or consistently good, old Pa Strawhat did not really specify. Now, after all that had happened with the box company, she was not sure if Pa knew what the difference was.

"OY HARDHAT COMMEN GET TEA AN' FIGGINS!" she yelled at the ceiling, for Hardhat's room was directly above. She heard a muffled groan and, anticipating the loud thud that always follows when Hardhat falls out of bed, she lifted her apron protectively over the plate of figgins. It caught the wood dust that inevitably fell from the ceiling, and Angela shook the apron to get rid of them.

It was Duncehat who appeared first, in fresh trousers and a brown coat the pattern of which looked familiar to her.

"Is that Pa's coat?" She asked, more out of curiosity than doubt.

Duncehat stood at attention, gripping the coat by the lapels. "Slick, eh?" said he proudly with a rakish grin that would have buckled any lady's knees.

Angela shrugged and poured tea. "Haven't seen it for long. Where'd you find it?"

"In the folks' closet," he said, running his fingers over the shiny fabric. "It was the only one that wasn't moth eaten or threadbare. D'you think I should ask mum for it?"

Angela did a smile that went as quickly as it came. "Don't bother her about it," she answered. "I doubt she'll even remember," and in a whisper, she added, "Mum's been wearing the same dress for two years."

"Ah, all's fair then," he winked theatrically. "This one here's for keeps." Duncehat folded himself on a chair and reached out for a figgin.

"Did you happen to see Hardhat on your way down?" Angela asked.

"Aye," Duncehat said. "Saw him on the floor tangled with a blanket, kicking and swearing. Oh, he seems to have untangled himself just yet."

Hardhat walked into the room, although it could be more accurately described as the roundabout motion of an ant with squashed antennae. He, by some miracle surely, eventually reached a chair and collapsed on it.

"Hermme na cu' an' fing," Hardhat mumbled, and Angela pushed a cup of tea and a figgin towards him.

Duncehat looked askance at his brother. "Are you quite sure it isn't another language?" he asked Angela.

"Oh, it is," said she as a-matter-of-factly. "Being bilingual is a requirement for the men of his, um, profession."

"You mean Assessor," Duncehat said.

"Yea."

"Of brewed products," he continued.

"Mm-hm."

"At the Mended Drum."

"Right."

"How much does he get inna month, then?" Duncehat asked, indignant.

Angela sighed like one who has been asked the question before. "It's an apprenticeship," she said. "So he does not really get _paid_, _per say_, but he'll be an Ordinal Assessor soon enough. At least it's what he says, right, Hardhat?"

Hardhat looked at the both of them with a bleary eye and nibbled on his figgin like a caterpillar.

"Cushy," said Duncehat with narrowed eyes. "Gods wot I change my career then, now, eh? Easy penny for a cushy desk job assessing."

Angela smiled like a farmer that has led his cattle to slaughter. "What if you could?" she asked, weaving her fingers together and hunching over the table.

Duncehat shook his head "Naw," he said. And again, "Naw," he repeated, more to convince himself than his sister with the expectant look on her face.

"Why?" She angled. "You'll be closer to home."

Precisely why, Duncehat thought. "Not up to it," he said, not without a cough. "I, um, just can't leave my, um, job. It's got some high stakes, pretty serious. And if I give that up for a seat behind a desk, pushing paper? Why it would crush me." He paused, placing a hand on his chest. "High stakes, Angie, is what I'm made for."

"Like the prospect of prison?" she muttered.

"Whatsat?"

She had to think quickly. "Buy a posh pick of pisson*****?"

*****A popular ornamental plant in Ankh-Morpork that yields bright orange flowers

Duncehat raised an eyebrow. "What the bloody hell for, eh?"

Angela shifted her gaze. "It's, um, for Pa's grave?"

Duncehat gave her a look reserved for, well, dunces. "Then you wouldn't want to get pissons, then. Those are for ladies, for when you like them, and don't want to forget their, um, confiding love. Forever-nots are more appropriate."

"Forever-nots," said Angela. "How, erm, fitting. But I'm not talking about a _job_ like Hardhat's," she continued, saying job like a loose spit on the ground.

"What, then?" Duncehat replied impatiently.

Angie swallowed, hesitated, and thought better of it. "What if it were, say, a production line involving containers of a cuboid morphology?"

"Like a box?" he said.

"Well-"

"Like a box company? A company that produces boxes?" Duncehat said with a raised voice.

"It's going to be pretty challenging, with lots of odds and high stakes and all and-"

"Like our BOX COMPANY, YOU MEAN?"

"-well it's not like there's anything we can do about it. Besides what's wrong-"

"ARE YOU JOKING? THE BLOODY THING'S BEEN RUN DOWN EVEN BEFORE PA DIED, EH? Sorry mum."

Mrs. Wishbone wheeled herself into the room. The mistress of the house had been in a wheeled-chair for four years now. Her gaunt frame, stooped shoulders, and hawk-like expression added to her years, but she had arms that could wrestle and win. Her palms were covered with a length of stray pieces of cloth that never stayed tied, so they hung freely and frequently got tangled at the wheels.

"Buggerit, ger em off!" The old lady said, yanking at the cloth with all her might.

"Here, mum, I got that-" Duncehat offered.

"Buggeroff, you buck!"

"Right-o," he said, raising both arms and turning back to the table. Then his face suddenly brightened. "Ha! I got it," Duncehat said, his face streaked with epiphany. "What if," he paused, "we let mum run the box company. After all, OW!" he yelled, after being hit on the head with a high velocity, missile precision copper pot.

The old lady fixed him with a beady glare. "Bloody kids wir' 'em dumb idear-"

"What?" Duncehat said to Angela, who had a raised eyebrow. "Lady's got a brass neck, look at her!"

"-been mutherin' all me life, raisin' these bloody kids-"

"She can keep 'em in check, and we could even build, um, ramps and such," he continued.

"-never gettin' any sleep, buggerem, scrapin' ferra livin'-"

"Mum," Angela mumbled.

"And we could even have those extra roomy privy stalls-"

"-brought 'em up from the cradle I did, bloody kids, and lost the use of me legs-"

"MUM," Angela repeated.

"Oh, and we could fix her up a nice room at the ground floor, with the desk facing the door, eh?"

"-can't stand the bloody whining, and the finger-pointin' at the market, 'Mama, mama, I want that!' bloody-"

"MUM!" Angela yelled over the noise. Both Duncehat and Mrs. Wishbone stopped their one-sided conversations to stare at her. Angela reached over the table and took a pastry from the plate. "Here's a figgin, mum," she said, and Mrs. Wishbone took it between her gauzed hands. "Now go back to staring out the window there's a good lady." Angela wheeled her mother out into the sitting room and positioned her by the window.

"I dern like this bloody window," Mrs. Wishbone grumbled. "It squeaks."

With a sigh, Angela wheeled her over to the next window, and when it was met with no resistance, she returned to the kitchen.

"Well?" said Duncehat.

Angela placed both hands on her narrow hips and asked the ceiling for patience. "That would be all and well," she said, "if mum were not slightly off her rocker."

"And what's that suppos'd to mean?"

"Senile, Duncehat," she replied, with the baldness of an illegally logged hilltop. "Senile. She has flown the coop, left the nest, dropped the marble, kicked the can, shuffled the deck, bitten the big Wahoonie, sniffed the-"

"Okay, okay, gods," Duncehat interrupted. "So, what do we do now?"

Angela weaved her fingers together and placed them under her chin. "You really don't want the, erm, job?"

"Ye gods, no!" said Duncehat in panic. "Besides, I have to return to Pseudopolis soon. I can't have business backed up. What about Hardhat right here? He's not going anywhere, isn't he?"

They had almost forgotten him. At the sound of his name, Hardhat picked his head up like a cat and dropped it again to pay attention to something else, like a cat.

Angela looked at her brother with a mixture of revulsion and pity. She sidled over next to Hardhat and placed an arm around him. "As you can see, he's quite occupied," she explained. "Aren't cha, Hardhat?"

Hardhat turned so slowly that she could almost hear his neck creak. He cast a wondering eye at her. "Haaaarm?" He said, breathing all over her face the smell of rotten piss and a figgin, down there, somewhere. Angela turned to Duncehat with a curled expression and managed to force it into a smile. "See?" she said.

"Well, if you get him into one of those reha-" he paused, "rehabeelee-" he paused and breathed, "those places where they put fellows who get too 'work-a-holic' and maybe they could set him to rights?"

This is going to be tricky, Angela thought. "We've tried that months ago," she said. "Hardhat's too dedicated for any institution. Watch this." She turned to Hardhat and said, "What Do You Want, Hardhat? What. Do. You. Want?"

All of a sudden, Hardhat straightened his back and with a beaming expression, he said, "A-bottle-of-whiskey-and-a-glass-o'-gin!" before slumping into stupor.

"It's all he thinks about, poor fellow," Angela said, patting Hardhat on the back. "Well if you wouldn't take the job, and if Hardhat's too busy, then all hope is lost then," she said, her voice reduced to a whisper.

Duncehat looked at her with a blank expression that slowly turned into triumph. "No," he said resolutely. "No," he repeated moving towards Angela with his arms stretched outward. "All hope is not lost, unless," he paused.

Angela looked at her brother with an expression of complete bewilderment. "Unless what?"

"Unless," he said once more, taking each of her hands into his. "Unless you...do."

"Me?" she said, with a note of rehearsed surprise. "You want me to take over the box company?"

Duncehat grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly. "Who else could there be?" he said, using a voice that would send many a salesman to tears. "Despite your inexperience, naivete and all-around ingenuousness (how did I manage that word?), I am sure you would rise up to the situation and take the bull by the-"

"By the what?" Angela asked.

"By the horns, my dear!" he said with theatrical glee.

"I had heard from somewhere that that sort of thing is dangerous," she replied.

Duncehat rattled her once more. "Exactly!" he said, relying solely on the might of a solitary excalamation mark.

"But the company-"

"Will soon pull through under your leadership, I am sure," he said. "This is your hour, little Angie. The captain has abandoned his ship and you must take the helm and steer the ship through the storm. Pillar of flame, blaze of glory!" he continued.

Angela allowed herself to be bowled over by the meaningless phrases Duncehat sputtered like firecrackers. "You think I could do it?" she asked.

"Yes!" he cried, his fist pumping. "And bloody better than anyone else, too! So that's settled then? You will do it?"

Angela lowered her eyes and stood still, while Duncehat looked at her like a party-popper in a countdown. She sighed and acted as though she dithered between assent and refusal. A few seconds passed and she glanced up to her brother. "Yes," she squeaked.

"Yes!" Duncehat repeated for her, and he took Angela by the waist, lifted her up, and twirled her once before setting her down.

"Wonderful!" he said to himself. "Alright I'm off then."

Angela looked up in surprise. "Where are you going?"

"Well this deserves a celebration, at least!" he said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "Remember your favorite 'tater stew?" Duncehat took the canvas and set it down again; it was not raining anymore. He tugged at the door, but it wouldn't budge. He pulled at it with all his might, still, the door would not yield.

Angela strode to the window and threw it open. "Oy, you there!" she yelled to a passing stranger on the street. The stranger pointed to himself. Me? he asked.

"Yea," said Angela. "You mind giving the old door a kick? Right, thanks. Just a good punt, right there on the lower part, just remember nottomakeitto-" the door flew open and a jar fell and broke. "-strong. Thanks."

She turned to Duncehat and buttoned his new coat. "Well off you go then," she said. "Get em 'taters."

XoXoXoX

On another street in another part of Ankh-Morpork, meanwhile, the Guild of Merchants decided the fate of a failing box company on Lockbee Street.


	4. Chapter 3

**Hot and Cold **by samepaverge

**Chapter 3**

_Ka-chlack._

He snapped it. Once. Twice.

_Ka-chlack. Ka-chlack._

Lord Havelock Vetinari, Ankh-Morpork's sanest Patrician yet, sat in what could only be described as suppressed awe. He gingerly held between his long fingers a device that, when snapped, produced a thin metal wire bent at both ends. It was Leondard of Quirm's creation, a sticking-papers-together-with-a-piece-of-metal-device he said, and it worked using a spring mechanism that disloges the wire and fastens the papers.

Vetinari called it The Snapper. And it was more than an office tool, it was a weapon. As much of a good weapon as a paperclip was. In the right hands, there were just so many possibilities.

And it was only seven in the morning.

Drumknott showed up at the Oblong Office, soundless as a shadow, and he juggled a cup of tea, a plate of toast and several manila folders between two hands.

Vetinari sighed and put the Snapper down. "Good morning, Drumknott," he said brightly. "I trust you have rested well?"

Drumknott coughed. "Erm, yes, your lordship," he replied with a rasp in his voice. He set the items down on Vetinari's desk.

The Patrician looked at the bedraggled man before him. It was only three hours ago when they had last seen each other. He had been working the man hard, he knew, but it was part of the occupation. There have been worse days. "Very well," he told Drumknott, with as much concern as can be placed in a few words, "you may go."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Drumknott."

"Commander Vimes is right outside, sir. Shall I show him in?"

"Ah, yes," Vetinari said, but as Drumknott turned to go, he recalled something. "Wait-"

"Sir?"

Vetinari held the Snapper with one hand and two pages of a report in another. "Would you mind taking a look at this?" he said excitedly.

As Drumknott stood at attention, Vetinari placed the corners of both pieces of paper between the jaws of the Snapper and pressed hard. It went _ka-chlack_, and they were joined together by a strip of wire. He waved it at Drumknott's direction. "Hm?" said Vetinari proudly.

A pair of tired eyes stared back at him. "It is sacrilege, sir." Drumknott pronounced slowly. "May I show the Commander in now?"

The Patrician put the Snapper down. "Oh yes, yes," he said, before opening a folder to skim its contents.

Drumknott shuffled out of the Oblong Office and greeted Vimes at the waiting room. "Take care," said Drumknott to the Commander, "he's feeling a bit, erm, radical today."

"Radical?" Vimes mouthed.

"Yes," he answered with a nod. "If he shows you that thing that snaps, I beg you, Commander," he said pointedly to Vimes, "to say something encouraging about paperclips."

Drumknott left Vimes, but not without spouting something about changing his desk locks and keeping '_them' _safe.

When Vimes stepped into the Oblong Office, Vetinari was hunched over his desk, reading. "Sir?" Vimes began.

The Patrician looked up at him and shuffled the papers on his desk, trailing a fingertip across the edges. "Good morning, Commander," Vetinari said brightly, "do sit down." He gestured to a plain wooden chair across the desk.

When Vimes remained standing and staring at the wallpaper behind him, Vetinari sighed. "Very well, Commander," he said, steepling his fingers over the desk. "What news?"

Vimes cleared his throat. "The Cooper boy has been found, sir," he began.

"Oh, good. Where?"

"Floating, erm, sprawled atop the Ankh, sir. Took two hours to retrieve him, sir."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't he have just, um, walked off it?"

"He was dead, sir, when we found him." Vimes explained.

Vetinari's face fell a fraction so small it was undiscernable. "And the party or parties responsible?"

"We are making inquiries, sir." Vimes answered automatically.

The Patrician nodded once. "Very well, " he said. "Anything else?"

What could he say? There was nothing more than the usual quota of unlicenced burglaries, murders, snatchings, beatings, brawls, squabbles and abductions that a city like Ankh-Morpork put out. And there were no other cities like it anywhere on the Disc. Where else would you find a city where more than half the population is guilty of something?

At that moment, Vimes realised that nothing was happening. Nothing was out of the ordinary. No strange isolated event that threatened to snowball into a cataclysm which could threaten the whole of Ankh-Morpork. No dramatic climax that could possibly end with one of Vetinari's ridiculous commendations. He felt his shoulders relax at the thought.

Vimes shrugged. "Old Strawhat died," he said, saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Who?" Vetinari asked.

"Old Strawhat Wishbone from Lockbee Street," he explained. "He used to run this box company, or ran it, they said. Ran it down to ground."

"Oh."

"One of his sons got in trouble a couple of weeks ago after he attacked a member of the Guild of Accountants," Vimes continued. "The company had a fair number of creditors, sir, and no doubt they'll be wanting their money back. The Merchants' Guild is taking care of the matter, and the way things are going, only one thing's gonna happen."

There was a moment's silence before anyone spoke. "Bankruptcy and foreclosure," Vetinari supplied.

"Exactly, sir," said Vimes. "There's word of the daughter taking over, but I'm not sure what good that would do."

"I doubt it as well," Vetinari concurred. "Twenty percent of all businesses set up here in the city eventually fail, Vimes, all for different reasons. It is saddening, of course, to see a venture fail, but that's your market forces in action. The world has to move on."

Vimes nodded. "They lose everything," he said, "and the world moves on."

Vetinari touched a finger to his lips and eyed Vimes. "Despite our convictions, Commander," he said, "it is never fair."

Vimes restrained a scoff. "I know, sir," he replied. "I've been in the Watch long enough to know that."

"Of course," Vetinari agreed. "Of course. Well, if there are no more news, Commander, then this must be a very uninteresting week indeed."

Vimes shuffled in his boots. "Doesn't keep you from putting in long hours, sir," he ventured.

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. "The city never sleeps, Commander," he said. "So, it appears, does the man who rules it." Vetinari lips quirked upwards for a second. "I appreciate your concern," he said, eyes lowered.

It was Vimes' turn to raise an eyebrow. "Your Lordship must've misunderstood me," he said, and Vetinari looked up in genuine surprise. "I was concerned about Drumknott, sir. You seem to be working him hard lately."

Vetinari brightened with gleeful menace. "Then I will gladly inform him of the fact," he said with a wolfish smile.

"I was merely joking, sir," Vimes insisted, "but he did seem bothered earlier."

Vetinari nodded. "It was because of the Snapper," he said.

"Sir?"

The Patrician waved a metallic object at Vimes and began snapping it in front of him.

"Think about the paperclips, sir," Vimes said, recalling something that Drumknott mentioned to him earlier.

Vetinari chuckled. "Yes, I had him worried, didn't I?" he said. "Of course, Commander, I really cannot do anything that would inconvenience my clerks, despite how beautiful and revolutionary this is." Vetinari laid a hand on the Snapper like a pet.

"Sir," Vimes answered.

A moment's silence ensued, and Vimes felt that his presence was no longer necessary.

"I have to go now, sir," he said, adding, "I won't keep you from your tea."

At its mention, Vetinari noticed the cup in front of him. He took a sip. "It's cold," he said.

Vimes knew he was not in the position to talk about what someone ate for breakfast. He could still distinctly recall those days when he drank Bearhugger's for more than one mealtime. He thought he had sufficiently improved when he began to eat real people food for breakfast (eggs, bacon, black burnt bits drowned in fat), and now that he was married and well-fed (oh, how the two seemed to go hand in hand!), he couldn't keep his mouth shut when he noticed that Vetinari ate only a cup of tea and a piece of toast for breakfast. The man ate like a prisoner.

Vimes shuffled in his boots. "You might want to consider eating something a little more sustaining, er, sir," he said.

Vetinari only tilted his head in reply, coaxing him for an explanation.

"Well, um, maybe eating a bit of meat perhaps," Vimes continued.

"Where did you learn that, Commander?" Vetinari asked, as though what he said was a piece of forgotten lore.

Vimes shrugged. "Just something that Sybil tells me everytime, sir," he replied, without looking at the Patrician. "She says I've got to 'put more meat into my bones', and," he paused, "and I thought maybe you could use putting some meat...into your, um, bones."

A moment passed; Vetinari stared at Vimes while Vimes stared at the wallpaper behind him. "Ah," Vetinari said, "perhaps I might take it to heart, then. Very well, Commander," he continued with an air of finality, "you may go, if you please."

When Vimes had left, Vetinari resumed reading the reports. He never had a trouble with concentration. In fact, it was not unusual that he would sit down to work at seven in the morning and not stand up until it was dark. He was one of the people who believed that if you wanted something to be done, you just sit down and do it. Focus was never a problem, but something bothered him, right between his stomach and his throat. It fluttered and would not settle down, like butterflies in a garden. Or flies on a corpse, come to think of it.

What he really needed...

What he really, really needed...was a thing that could reverse the effect of the Snapper, an un-Snapper of some sort. He had to speak to Leonard of Quirm for some design ideas.

The flies stopped buzzing for a moment.


	5. Chapter 4

**Hot and Cold **by samepaverge

**Chapter 4**

The Merchants' Guild is one of the youngest in Ankh-Morpork. It may not have the prestige (more of arrogance, really) of the Assassins' Guild or the popularity of the Seamstresses' Guild, but trade and commerce still is the heart of the city, and therefore they are, by extension, also important. Very, very important.

Eric Porbeagle just wished that the woman in front of him thought the same.

He had no idea why the Guildmaster gave him this task. He could only think of two things: either he is very hated or very capable. Miss Wishbone was a slight woman, he practically outweighed her, but she had an aura of, well, it wasn't Zen. In fact, it was the exact opposite. While she listened to him, she maintained a quietness similar to a dynamite a few seconds before it explodes and obliterates everything in a 20-metre radius. Porbeagle valued his life dearly.

"We-that is, the Guild-are advising you to cut your losses before everything goes underwater," repeated Porbeagle. He had been saying the same thing for the past ten minutes and he had run out of terrestrial metaphors and had moved on to aquatic ones.

Angela Wishbone sat stiffly. "I can't do that," she said. Miss Wishbone didn't bother with metaphors.

Porbeagle sighed. "We have looked at your father's books and, well," he paused and wiped a hand on his sweaty forehead, "things don't look pleasant."

"Look, I know it seems bad," Angela replied. "But I'm going to turn this whole thing around."

Porbeagle wondered what precisely it was that she was going to turn around. Only a quarter of the total number of employees had stuck around after Strawhat Wishbone's unfortunate death, and in a few days they would be gone too. Box production had stalled, and in this type of business if you aren't churning out, you might as well be rubbed off the face of the Disc.

Miss Wishbone, Porbeagle thought, had the tenacity of a bulldog and the business awareness of one. Too much of the former and too little of the latter. Non-traders are inclined to think that people on their field are throat-cutting, one upping money-grubbers, and they were right most of the time, but they have started to learn that it was better for business to cooperate rather than chuck explosives at each other. Cheaper and better. Lord Vetinari had even supported this kind of ethos, the Guild stuck to it as well, and needless to say, everyone in Ankh-Morpork and outside it could see the results. Anyone who cared to, at least.

Of course, if you expected that the city would suddenly gleam and sparkle and the people would walk around achieving sudden enlightment, you were a fool. Ankh-Morpork moves, but it changes slowly, and it operates like a windmill with a broken vane. Not a hundred percent efficient, but then in the not-so-distant past no one cared about efficiency when they were busy with survival. Porbeagle had lived in a time when overturning carts, waylaying the bearers of goods and merchandise and paying someone to nick the cogwheels of the other guy's line was nothing but true and solid business sense. It was rougher back then, oh yes.

Now there was the Guild, and these people, who in the past wouldn't even blink while pulling another bloke's means of living from under him, started trying to help each other in that genuine, thick-as-treacle way, well, they were themselves surprised that they didn't have to use flammable materials anymore as an aggressive business move. It was now talking and signing, deals and trade agreements, and while everyone had different ideas about different things, it was agreed that the cut down on the budget for 'Combustibles' was a very good and cost-effective thing indeed. The Guild, dare he say it, had begun to grasp the idea of a Greater Good.

Eric Porbeagle just wished that the woman in front of him thought the same.

"I know you have the best intentions for your father's business," he said, rubbing his sweaty palms together. "But we're well past the stage of damage control. In fact, we are already two rungs below." He didn't say that it was named 'Sell Everything While You Can', which was above 'Kill It With Fire' and below 'You Can Still Go To Bed-But You're Screwed'.

"Look, I'm not selling," Angela insisted, showing appropriately gritted teeth. "I already have plans for the future."

Yeah, and me Gran packs crossbows in her shack down at Wixon's, Porbeagle thought. "Alright," he said expectantly.

Miss Wishbone's impenetrable confidence seemed to blip for a second. "Well, I've thought about looking around for a better cardboard supplier, and maybe the manpower could be reduced for now, at least until sales looks better and the company recovers."

Porbeagle sighed. It was exactly what he would do, if he were a fool or just very, very stubborn, and sometimes there's no difference between the two. He could remember a time in the past when boxes were not as popular. People either used a good solid wooden cabinet for stationary item storage or a wooden crate for mobile transport. There was no halfway house for rogue objects who wanted to do both. He couldn't remember exactly what happened after that, or what sparked the box revolution, but suddenly everyone wanted cardboard boxes. It was rad, it was all the rage. People wanted to store their excesses in them, and it became convenient to keep your things instead of chucking them out of the street when you no longer needed them. Massive hoarding occurred throughout the city. The Wishbone Box Company was the first supplier of boxes in Ankh-Morpork. They were good boxes too, because they were made of good cardboard. The company, after all, was previously named Wishbone Cardboard Company before the big overhaul. The idea that you could fold cardboard and put things in them was simply genius.

He wished that Miss Wishbone could have see those days. Alas, she was born too late. Again, for reasons he could not fathom, the demand for cardboard boxes suddenly declined. Maybe everyone had enough boxes already or maybe there was nothing to put in boxes anymore. Or it could be as simple as everyone just re-using the boxes instead of buying new ones. When the sales for boxes started going down, so did their quality. Wishbone started buying second-rate cardboard, then third-rate, then cardboard that wasn't even worth stuffing your boots with. Things spun out of control, creditors had to be contacted, loans had to be acquired just to keep everything from collapsing. You had to admire Old Strawhat though, keeping the flimsy boxes coming and sticking around while his world fell down piece by corrugated piece. Perhaps it was because he had a family. You had to see it through, if you did. There was no other way. Strawhat knew that he wasn't only responsible for himself, he was responsible for Mrs. Wishbone, young Partyhat (when he was among the Living), Duncehat, Hardhat, and of course, Little Angie. He was a ruined businessman in the end, Strawhat was, but you could never say he was a terrible father. Porbeagle knew he Kept Things Together, and everyone knows that's the worst job in the world. Strawhat tried, and by golly gee he didn't go down without a fight.

When he died, the Palace took a double order of Wishbone's flimsy boxes. Mountains of paperwork to sort and file, they said.

No matter how unfortunate circumstances were, however, business was still business. The creditors would have to be paid, eventually, and 'eventually' had become 'right now'. Porbeagle was certain that the Guild of Accountants (and Usurers) have contacted Angela already. It always happens that the people you owe money to are always around, and their orbit becomes smaller and smaller as time passes. 'Loanshark's Law of Motion', he called it, and Wishbone had many. And if you think about getting more loans to cover up the other loans, forget about it. Creditors have quorum sensing, and if one of them knew that you gave bad credit, you would have to ride over to Uberwald to find someone who would lend you money. That was how it was in business, when things were good, they were good, when things are bad, well, Ankh-Morpork has a lot of high places. Old Strawhat was a brave man for sticking around, yes he was, but they still got him. In the end they would all be got.

Eric Porbeagle knew that the woman in front of him thought the same.

"You could do those things," Porbeagle explained. "If you could find the money. But as of now you have, well," he paused, making a show of opening a ledger and pointing his finger at a number, "a staggering sum of nothing."

Angela bristled, but kept herself in check. "Well I'm sure we could-"

"Borrow a bit of money from a generous creditor for a small interest?" Porbeagle supplied. "I'm really sorry to say this, but you and I know your Dad did that a long time ago. He borrowed bits of money from generous creditors for a small interest. And when things got worse he even borrowed outrageous sums of money from ungenerous usurers for a huge rate of interest. And things like money and lenders, Miss, are like rats and roaches, they never go away. Oh, you fumigate, maybe once, twice a week, thinking they're a thing of the past, but you as much blink and they're back like they were never gone." Porbeagle was treading in deep waters here, but he continued. "I know that you have taken your father's business to heart, and you have high hopes for it, but we all think it is time to see things sensibly."

Angela adopted a squint in a second and used it at Porbeagle. "Are you saying I'm not sensible? That I can't handle things? Is it because-because I'm a woman?"

Good gods, no! thought Porbeagle. He raised his hands up in defence. "I am sure you can manage your father's business very well, Miss Wishbone," _In fact you're the only one who could in your family, which explains why you were so eager to take it. Everyone knew that her brother Duncehat was a smuggler at Pseudopolis, Hardhat was chugging it at the Mended Drum and their mum had tallied the stakes and pushed in all her chips. He'd be pitying her if she wasn't so likely to grab him by the collar and give him a good 'un, and by that he didn't mean a kiss._

Porbeagle gulped visibly. "I'm just saying, Miss," he continued. "that it would more prudent if we were to follow the advice of the Guild. It's what any sensible man-er, woman, would suggest. A person with such little experience as yours would surely-"

Porbeagle was suddenly aware of being grabbed by the collar and lifted up. He was face to face against Angela Wishbone in a second. "Here's what I think, Eric," she said, jaws visibly tensing, "I know I am, as you have succintly put it, with little experience, but I'm doing everything it takes to get Pa's manufactory on its feet, do you understand? I'm not giving up, I'm not backing down. Why? Because that's what he would have wanted. He died Keeping Things Together, and you know what? I knew he would. I knew it would happen. So I took it as a personal task to teach myself how to best succeed him, because he never taught me, and I'm going to do my father proud."

Dogged as a dog at your heels, Porbeagle thought. "I have heard that stubborness is just another word for stupidity," he blurted. He shouldn't have said that._ He should not have said that_. But there are just some things that you have to point out.

Angela smiled wolfishly. "So, I have heard, does cheek," she said. Then her next words had a strange note of finality, "Tell the Guild that I appreciate their advice."

In a moment, Eric Porbeagle found out why. He was vaguely aware of something bony hitting him, and the last thing he saw was a hazy oval shape surrounded by prematurely graying strands, a warped ceiling fixed shoddily, and then everything going _bloop_.


	6. Chapter 5

**Hot and Cold**

**Chapter 5**

Even the weather, it seemed, could bump all its hard work at the end of the work week. While no one was entirely certain how difficult precipitation was compared to other meteorological activities, it appeared that the weather liked to push it until there was nothing else to do and just when the people below were looking forward to doing nothing. So it was another wet-day Friday, and the cobbles glistened while soot and grime was wiped temporarily from the streets. Ankh-Morpork was like an unwashed brat that jumped out of doors as soon as bath time was over, clothing optional.

There was a stationary black coach at the steps of the Unseen University. A few minutes ago a tall, thin man vacated it, entered the enormous building, and made his way towards the Library. Somewhere inside this place that defied the laws of Space and Time, was the Librarian's desk. It was currently occupied by an Orangutan that was quietly stamping labels on a stack of books and idly chewing a banana.

The dark-haired man stood expectantly in front of him, hands clasped behind his back. "New acquisitions?" he asked.

"Ook," the Librarian answered. These were the new books, the Librarian meant to say. The tamer ones at least, they always get stamped first. The magical ones would have to be dealt with later, after lunch is finished. "Ook ook eek?" he continued, with an inquiring look on his face.

The man's expression remained impassive. "Dear me, no," he said. "It's Mr. Keen, and yes, I am here to borrow some books."

It was his and the Librarian's little secret. Everyone knew that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was always watched, men at the top usually are, and it was the sacred task of those below to watch what the Man was doing. Not many know that it was the Man's task to know where and when and how he was being watched, and how to mess with them accordingly. It's lonely at the top, they say, but gods they were wrong. It's just a matter of finding alternative sources of entertainment, but ever since he had been taken off the Assassins' Guild's roster, something about board-smashing, he heard, well, life had been a little lacklustre, but he eventually recovered. Traps were nevertheless still to be maintained, and the windows to his office were, last time he checked, utterly unclimbable.

Vetinari knew those who watched him keenly, those who watched him with an eye and those who couldn't care less if he kept virgins chained in the dungeon, which he didn't, _really_, but it was still ridiculous what sort of things people made up about him. For the record, the Patrician's Palace did have a dungeon (Or dungeons, rather. Many, many dungeons.), but it was because the place was previously the official residence of Ankh-Morporkian monarchy. That is, until old Stoneface Vimes did his thing and lobbed off the King's head. But the dungeons stayed. It came with the place, you could say, like the pipes that always leaked or that window that just wouldn't budge, which the landlord always promised he'd get fixed but always forgot.

But the dungeon walls never forgot, his clerks whispered amongst one another. They had half of the dungeons converted into storage space, because the Palace sucked paper in like a vacuum, and nothing ever comes out. There have been stories, he knew, of a new clerk (it was always a new clerk) going down the spiral steps, rummaging through the endless rows of flimsy boxes to look for some forgotten file only to suddenly hear the sounds of chains clanging, distant groaning, blood-curdling screams, the smell of fish frying and a voice that whispers _'Two onions and a sweet potato_...'. It was the legacy of an era past, and Vetinari thought of those kings, who also watched the men watching them, and he knew that some of those men had ended up on those dungeons.

Vetinari wasn't particularly keen on dungeon-throwing; it simply wasn't his style. Besides, the cost of the upkeep would only put more stress on the City's budget, which it certainly could not afford. Additionally, some people are infinitely more useful outside prisons rather than inside it, except Leonard of Quirm, because the man _simply_ had to be contained. He also disliked shaking people up and asking them too many questions, which was Lord Winder's method, and look where he ended up. What Vetinari did was arrange things, a detail here, another there, and with enough force, it was only a matter of physics before the balls fell into the right pockets.

When he took the position as Patrician many years ago, he had to get used to having people's eyes on him. As a former assassin, he was used to blending in the shadows, keeping still and making sure that he was never seen. Patience. Silence. His life depended on them. And now that he was in the public eye, he was suddenly the target of people who very much wanted to know what made him tick. Because all the Patricians had something. So they had their eyes peeled for him, but when months passed and he did nothing but read reports, arrange meetings, and, well, _do his job_, they were all frustrated, disappointed and relieved at the same time. Of course he was disinclined to disappoint people, but people-pleaser he was not. They eventually gave up on him and left him alone, while a few hung around, waiting for something to turn up.

Lord Rust, for example. Vetinari would have laughed if it was his idea of amusement, but the man had the habit of spying on Vetinari's Library usage, of all things. Rust must have taken the idea of knowledge equals power seriously, so the key to Vetinari's power must be his knowledge, and the key to Vetinari's knowledge must be found in the books he read. Even he was impressed with the leap in Rust's logic. Vetinari wished he could tell the man that he never borrowed books using his own name, but instead have made a little arrangement with the Librarian to have another name in the records, a Mr. Valclav Rithidoor-Keen. An odd name, Vetinari knew, but it was one that he just made up on the spot.

Lord Havelock Vetinari, on the record, borrowed mostly political treatises and monographs on Klatchian economics, but lately he had been borrowing books on Monomoriums and Agatean carpets, just to shake things up. He wondered what Rust would make of it. Vetinari sometimes thought of telling Rust about it, but that meant his little game would be over, and besides, he could never find the right occasion.

Mr. Keen, on the other hand, borrowed whatever he liked, and he was always bumped to the top of the waitlist, so he was sure that he made a few enemies. The Librarian informed him that there were vague threats on Keen's life, and that very bad things would happen to Keen should he ever show up. He was amused by that. Of course Mr. Keen's enemies were mostly students, serious readers and ordinary people, which hardly terrified him. Nobles in Ankh-Morpork are too busy to read, and they regarded it as the habit of commoners and therefore inferior. If books would have to be read, then it would certainly be books which held up the right virtues and presented the right ideals.

Vetinari let the Librarian make recommendations for him. He, that is the Librarian, had a knack for guessing which book a person wanted to read. A few days after Wuffles' death, for example, a copy of 'Grieving for Your Pet' had turned up at his desk, and while it didn't make things any better (Wuffles was still in doggie heaven, with an unlimited supply of Trucklement's Yummy Assortment), he had been a little more accepting. When Vetinari returned the book, the Librarian told him that it was the books who chose the reader, not the other way around, and in a place like this, filled with magic, you just had to think it was so.

The Librarian had come back. Vetinari didn't even notice that he was gone, but apparently the Librarian had been collecting recommendations, books that wanted Vetinari to read them, and he now laid the stack at his desk. The Librarian held out each one of them, showing each title to Vetinari, and the books, in some mystical way, chose.

"Ook?" The Librarian asked. It was a slim volume entitled 'Modern Uberwaldian Opera'.

Vetinari shook his head. "No," he answered.

"Ook?" A green book with a picture of a small bird. Below it said 'The Birds of Borogravia'.

Vetinari nodded.

"Ook?" It was a battered hardbound that said 'The Chimneye Sweeper'

Dear gods, he was a boy when he read that! He shook his head.

"Ook?" The Slapstick Girl.

Vetinari was sure that story was about the girl who died on Hogswatch Eve, laughing.

And on and on it continued, until the the Librarian got to the last book on the stack, which was about stunted trees that came from the Agatean Empire. Apparently, cultivating stunted trees had a calming effect on a person. Interesting. He borrowed the book, along with 'The Birds of Borogravia'.

His reading tastes might as well be esoteric to the next person, but he made it a point to read things he did not know much about, for one did not know when such things might come in handy. We read and we learn, we read and we learn...

The books were checked out under Mr. Keen's name. Vetinari tucked it under his arm and turned to go, but not without passing by a young man with a harried-looking expression on his face. In fact, he was so harried that he hardly gave a thought to the Patrician whom he passed. Vetinari heard the conversation between the young man and the Librarian which went something like this:

"Ook?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you," there was a pause as the man tried to catch his breath, "but do you happen to have 'The Birds of Borogravia'? I'm going there tomorrow for bird-watching, you see, and-what?"

"Ook eek ook."

"What do you mean it's on loan? It only got here yesterday, and I was first on the waitlist!"

"Ook eek."

"Are you serious? But that's impossible! Who is-let me see!"

"Ook!"

"That Valclav Keen guy again? Well who does he think he is? If that bloke shows up I swear he's going to get it."

"Ook! Ook!"

"Oh, I'm not scared of him. Why, he must be some inbred moron, not knowing how the system works. The bloody idiot must think he runs the city."

"Eek eek."

"Yeah, do you know how many times he's pulled that trick? There should be some rule or something about this. I bet I could get him banned from coming in here."

"Ook, ook!"

"Oh, that's what you think, huh? Well why don't you quit and work for him, you stupid monk-aah, _AAH! GET OFF!_"

"_OOK! OOK EEK OOK!_"

Vetinari's lips quirked upwards in the semblance of a smile and kept walking towards the door. We read and we learn...

XoXoXoX

When Vetinari arrived at the Palace, Drumknott was waiting for him inside.

"Good afternoon, Drumknott," he said, "They are in the waiting room, I expect?"

The clerk nodded, clutching a worn clipboard with both hands. "Yes, sir," he answered. "Best not to keep them waiting, sir."

"Of course, of course," he said, "well, do show them in. And say I'll be with them shortly."

So much for a bit of afternoon reading, Vetinari thought, but how could he really expect otherwise? Ever since he became Patrician, he hardly had time to be Vetinari, much less be Havelock. Because when you came down to it, the Patrician was more of an indentured servant than a ruler, and while he was a tyrant, his hands were nevertheless tied by a thousand fine strings. They pulled whichever way, and it was up to him to stand fast and balance the forces.

As the Patrician, he could grant audience to whomever he wanted. He recalled considering having an '_anyone who wants to come in can come in_' policy, which was a move rulers made when they wanted to look approachable, transparent and nice when they had many things to hide. It was worth a try, he thought, and maybe ordinary people with important problems and bright ideas could have a listening ear. He, of course, failed to recall that the city he was ruling was Ankh-Morpork, and you never, ever under-estimated its citizens.

They tried it at the Palace for a week, but what he wound up with was an endless queue of people who asked him the strangest questions. He distinctly recalled some of them:

"Your Lordship, I have been seeing this man for two years...why won't he marry me?"

"Sir, do you have a good recipe for bilberries? I have a cartful and I don't want them to spoil."

"Lord Vetinari, what sort of wine goes with roasted loin of lamb? Would that be white or red, sir?"

"Went to Mrs. Palm's the other week, erm, sir, and I seem to have got this rash right at the, erm, well would you mind taking a look at it, sir?"

"What's the synonym for 'caliginous', your Lordship? Five letters, and the fourth should be an 'R'."

"Mind sparing a tuppence, sir?"

The last one was asked by Nobby Nobbs. And when he realized that no one would actually start asking him important things, they had scrapped the idea. But no one in the Palace forgot the people and the questions and the queue that stretched all the way to the gates.

For the record, he knew the answers to all the questions. Yes, even the fourth one.

Vetinari entered the Oblong Office, went quietly to his chair, sat down, opened a folder and started reading. This went on for a few minutes, and when it appeared that the Patrician was not paying them any attention, someone in the group cleared his throat. It was a small sound at first, timid and unobtrusive. It then became a cough. But when the Patrician seemed not to have heard anything, it escalated into hawking, hacking, harrumphing followed by an unmistakable whoop.

The Patrician turned a page and massaged his temple.

The hawking had transformed into a chorus of coughs and throat-clearing, each with its own tempo and dynamics, and somehow, there was a sound of someone being choked to death.

Vetinari didn't stop reading, but instead pushed a tin of Fink 'n' Pratt's Particular Cough Drops (Lemon Lime flavor) towards them.

The noise slowly died, and someone managed to squeak out, "Si-ir?"

"Ye-es?" Vetinari said, without looking up.

"Well, we are from the Guild of Merchants, your Lordship," the man continued, "and this is Mr. Will Tubman, our Guildmaster."

Vetinari looked up to the speaker and was distracted by the man's eccentric appearance.

"Dear me," he said, closing the folder. "Whatever happened to you?"

The man had a purple bruise right below his eye, and when Vetinari turned to his companions, he noticed that two of them also had bruises. Then there was Tubman, two fellows who were from the Guild of Accountants and a woman with graying hair but a youthful face.

"Mr. Porbeagle is also from the guild and he had a, hrm, accident," he said, turning purposefully to the woman, who maintained a sour expression.

"Accident? _Accident?_" Porbeagle flailed. "She knocked me out clean! And take a look at this...it's still tender!" The man touched his bruise gingerly.

Vetinari placed his fingertips together and leaned on the desk. "Now, now, Mr. Porbeagle," said Vetinari, "I am sure this is all one big misunderstanding. And it would certainly help if we start from the beginning."

When Porbeagle seemed to calm down, Tubman cleared his throat. "It's about Wishbone's box company, sir," he began.

"Goo-od," Vetinari said, nodding, "now continue."

"Well, Mr. Wishbone's passed last month you see-"

"I'm certain he could come back the other way," Vetinari said innocently. He noticed the woman's frown deepen.

"He's got a one way ticket where he's going, sir, _ifyouknowwhatImean_," Tubman explained with a pointed look.

"He's cashed in his chips," said a bruised one.

"He's bought the farm," said another.

"Kicked the bucket," added an Accountant.

"Popped his clogs," piped up the other, grinning.

The woman turned from an indignant pink to an infuriated red in seconds. "Enough of the-he's bloody dead, you idiots! Don't you have any respect?"

Vetinari raised both eyebrows. "Ah," he said, like he'd come across an understanding. The outburst went unheeded.

"Yes, sir, as she said," Tubman agreed, "and so now we have some issues with the, hrm, succession of the business."

Vetinari tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Do correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Tubman," said he, "but I think common law states that the business is passed on to whoever was indicated at the Will of the deceased, usually a close relative or somesuch."

Tubman nodded. "Well, yessir, in this case, it would be Miss Wishbone right here," he replied. At the mention of her name, the woman looked up with an unreadable expression. "But there was no Will," Tubman continued. "She took the position because she was the only one in the family with the, hrm, capacity to do so."

"Then I don't see the problem, Mr. Tubman," Vetinari said, "If that is so. Miss Wishbone has two brothers, doesn't she?"

Angela gave Vetinari an inquiring look, and apparently thought better than to ask how he knew. "Yes," she answered.

"And are they both occupied?"

"Yes."

"Yes, _sir_," Vetinari corrected. "Do you mind telling us what they do, Miss Wishbone?"

Angela looked sideways and saw the other men staring at her, waiting for her to answer. "Trader and...hobbyist, um, sir."

Vetinari gave a nod. "They must be very busy then," he supplied.

"Yes!" she answered. And when Vetinari gave her a look, added, "Sir."

Vetinari raised both hands. "There you go," said he. "Miss Wishbone accedes and she will take over."

Tubman gave a start. "It would be possible, sir, if there was it a business to take over in the first place." Without waiting for Vetinari to ask what he meant, he continued. "Everyone knows that the company has been in dire financial straits for some years now. Mr. Strawhat had a fair number of creditors who are now demanding payment now that the company is, erm, defunct."

Angela straightened her back. "No it's not!" she said.

Tubman ignored her. "Mr. Wishbone has always been an active member of the Guild, even before he, erm, passed, and so we only have his best interests at heart. In fact," he turned towards Porbeagle, who in turn handed him an official looking piece of paper, "Mr. Porbeagle had left us this, in the event that he...hrm."

Tubman handed the paper to Vetinari, who scanned it quickly, in a manner that indicated that he had seen it before. Both eyebrows were raised, and he handed back the paper to Tubman. "So you see, sir, that-" he attempted.

Angela watched the exchange occur and had to interrupt. "Right, hold up gents," she said. "You seem to have lost me." She stretched her arm towards Tubman, palm up, and waved her fingers to herself repeatedly, the universal gesture for "Gimme that". Tubman sighed and handed her the paper.

Angela read the document, her sour expression turning to a deep frown which transformed to a blank stare. "That old, nasty old-" she began.

Vetinari held up a thin hand. "Tut, tut, Miss Wishbone," he interrupted. "I think we have a clear idea what you want to say. There is no need to say it out loud." He placed an forefinger over his lips.

She turned to Tubman and Porbeagle. "How long have you known about this?" she demanded. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Porbeagle coughed. "Your father had given it to us only a year ago; he must have been worried about his health," he paused. "We," he said, gesturing to his bruised fellows, "were going to tell you, but you seem to have beaten us to the punch, ha-ha, literally." One of them narrowed his eyes at her.

Tubman held a look of disinterest. He seemed to want to get the business done as quickly as possible. "May we continue now?" he said. "Good. Now, your Lordship, since the company was entrusted it to the Guild-"

Angela snorted.

Tubman smiled wearily. "-to the GUILD," he continued, "as men of business we considered it prudent to consider all options before making a decision."

Angela's lips mouthed '_Oh_' in mock realization. "Oh, wonderful," she said, "it's nice that you bothered coming up to me then, when it seems you boys have it all figured out."

Tubman's expression was one of disgust. It was not often that a distasteful young woman referred to older company as 'boys'. Even Vetinari had half a wince coming on. "Yess, Miss Wishbone," he hissed, "it _was_ very _nice_ of us. We could've done away with everything in half a day if we wanted. Instead, we let you biff three of our Guild members who only wanted to inform you about the steps we wanted to take, which, may I inform you, are only to keep the company from digging itself an even deeper grave."

Angela remained quiet. In fact, no one spoke up for seconds. Tubman took this as his cue to continue speaking. "Miss Wishbone," he said, a little calmer now, "the Guild has considered keeping the business alive, but it would cost money that you and the Guild alike do not have. We highly advise selling it, while it could still be done, and everyone would be satisfied...that is..."

_That is except me and my family_, Angela thought. "Advise," she huffed. "You talk as if I had some say in the matter. Just like you said, you could've done away with everything if you wanted. Why tell me?"

Tubman pinched the bridge of his nose, and did not speak for a while. The Patrician seemed to await his reply as well, his ear tilted slightly towards the Guildmaster. Then, he spoke. "How would you feel, Miss, if you went away somewhere only to come home and find your house locked from the outside, no way in?" Angela looked down with a slight frown. "I hope you see our point. I know it's very easy to think of us as a bunch of heartless bas-", he glanced at the Patrician, "-hrm, folks, but we're not. We're just doing what Mr. Wishbone should have done a long time ago."

Whatever anger that Angela had seemed to have dissipated, and was replaced with discouragement. "But," she began and paused to find the right words, "_what about my family?_"

Tubman bowed his head. He didn't have a satisfactory answer for that. No one did. It wasn't right, he knew, pulling their means of living from under their feet, but if he let things be it wouldn't be a means of living anymore; it would be a pitfall. He cleared his throat. "Now would be a good time for your brother to help out, Miss," said he, "and the Guild would be chipping in too, you could rely on that. Our bylaws state that we have to give financial assistance to a member's family in the event that he is permanently unable to do so. A pension, if you will. The Guild cannot promise a large sum, unfortunately, but we assure you that it would be all we can possibly give."

Angela sighed and nodded defeatedly. "And that's it?" she asked, looking at Tubman intently.

"That's it," he replied.

Vetinari pressed his hands together. The meeting seemed to have reached its natural denouement, when both parties have said whatever it was they have wanted to say. Meetings of the mind did not occur here, not in these rooms, but Vetinari always made sure that things were squared off, or else nobody gets out.

"Now, Miss Wishbone," Vetinari said, "the Guild has informed you of what they intend to do. However, their deference is a mere matter of formality, as Mr. Tubman has explained. You are, of course, free to take steps-"

"But that's ridiculous," she countered. "I don't even own the business!"

Vetinari ignored the interruption. "-steps of the _physical_ variety," he continued, "but it would force us to take measures of our own."

Everyone turned to Angela for an answer. "You mean I'm not allowed to clout Mr. Tubman right here?"

At the mention of his name, Mr. Tubman clenched his jowls and looked straight ahead.

Vetinari shook his head. "I am, in fact, saying the opposite," Vetinari said, and Tubman's eyes widened. "You are, in fact, free to _clout_ Mr. Tubman, but I am saying that there would be consequences. Action and reaction, Miss Wishbone; the world is simpler that way."

The men nodded, with the bruised trio being the most enthusiastic. Of course Angela knew what Vetinari meant. If she tried any more 'steps of the physical variety', she'd most likely get into trouble. What he's trying to tell her is that, _no, you don't have any choice, now be grateful you are still alive and kindly leave_. She didn't know what to say to that.

"Fine," she spat, "you can..." Somehow, she couldn't manage to say the rest of the sentence. How do you tell people that they could take everything they can without killing your pride?

Angela simply nodded.

"Very well," Vetinari said brightly, "have you gentlemen anything else to say?"

Tubman took a folder from Porbeagle. "Yes, sir," said he, "actually we are meaning to sell the business, hrm, right now."

Vetinari's eyes immediately flicked towards Angela. She suddenly became very, very good at not showing any emotion. _Well done..._

The Guildmaster opened the folder and made a flourish of signing his name, before handing it to Porbeagle, who also signed. Angela merely stared. She was, however, in for a surprise when Porbeagle handed the folder to the Patrician. Vetinari reached for a pen...

"Whoa, whoa," Angela interrupted. "What? What are you doing?"

Vetinari looked at her ingenuously. "I am signing my name, Miss Wishbone," he said as-a-matter-of-factly. "A signature, which is the appropriate manner of expressing agreement."

"But you're the Patrician!" said Angela, in a tone indicating that all comprehension had slipped from her. "I mean, what have you got anything to do with it, erm, sir?"

The Man looked at her. "Why, as the buyer in this party, my signature is required as part of the exchange." When he finished signing, he returned the folder to Tubman.

Angela's eyes widened. She opened her mouth and closed it again. "But you're the Patrician!" she said, as though it were a sufficient objection.

Vetinari merely nodded. "Yes, I am aware of that," he answered. "And I am also Lord Havelock Vetinari, a bona fide citizen of Ankh-Morpork, who has, last time I checked, the right to buy and own property in this city so long as I have the means to do so. And I do...have the means."

Angela was beyond words. Tubman grinned. "Well, you certainly do, sir," said he. "What about the creditors, sir?"

Vetinari placed his fingertips together. "I shall be dealing with them forthwith," he answered. "I am sure these gentleman from the Guild of Accountants will be amenable to an agreement..." The accountants tilted their heads in recognition. "At a different time, perhaps. We seem to have exhausted our meeting period, and I have other...activities to see to."

The men agreed. It was time to go. "Very well, gentlemen, Miss Wishbone," Vetinari said, "please don't let me detain you."

When everyone, even Angela Wishbone, had silently shuffled out, Vetinari turned to the stationary figure that remained inside the Oblong Office. "Well, Drumknott," he said. "What do you make of that?"

Drumknott went over to the Patrician's desk to collect and dispense some files. "I think, sir," he said quietly, "that the matter has reached a most satisfactory conclusion."

Vetinari ambled over to the large windows overlooking Broad Way and a part of the city."I think so too, Drumknott...I think so too," he replied.

The Patrician looked at the old buildings, the hundreds and hundreds of odd souls that occupied them, trying to make sense of the chaos that the Multiverse dealt out by the second, and he wondered how humanity managed to keep up.

Because we looked and we learned, thought the Patrician, and when that is not enough, we read and we learned...and in the end, we hoped to gods that everything would be alright.


	7. Chapter 6

**Hot and Cold**

**Chapter 6**

Sir Samuel Vimes took one look at his office and swore. He couldn't recall having so much paperwork to do, but there it was, stack upon stacks of paper heaped on his desk. Vimes was sure that those at the bottom have conglomerated into bedrock, and he'd need a bloody pickaxe and a good length of rope to reach the peak.

_It wasn't always like this_, Vimes thought. He distinctly recalled a time when the Watch was for those who had nowhere to go, people like Nobby and Sergeant Colon and, well, him. Those blokes who had hit rock-bottom and had nothing to aspire to and nothing to live for. Drifters. Bottom-feeders.

Now things were different. So different that he couldn't remember exactly how he had gone from point A to point B, all the while incurring a monumental amount of paperwork. A long time ago, he thought that he could have gone off and disappeared off the face of the Disc without anyone even blinking twice. If he did that now, well, he couldn't do that now. It wouldn't be right. There was Sybil to think about...and while she _had_ spent a major portion of her life without even knowing he existed, those years that she did know mattered more to the both of them.

He also had responsibilities in the Watch; they needed him here. Or was it the other way around? Perhaps things weren't so different from the way they were before. The stakes just get higher, and the higher it gets the greater the fall becomes. And the greater the fall, the lesser the chances of survival.

Well, if there was anything that Ankh-Morpork taught him, it was learning how to save his own neck.

Vimes went across the table, passed Mt. Paperwork and sat down on his rickety chair. It was an old, plain wooden chair from the old Watch House, and he had it brought here. He wanted to bring his old desk too, but Carrot said that it wouldn't 'send the right message'. The desk had a slight skew to the right and the wood was rotting in places, hell, it probably wouldn't even stand the sheer amount of stuff that ended up on his desk these days...but the chair had to come with him, 'cos it was the only one that could hit that right _squeak_ when he pulls his legs up and puts them on the table, like this. Vimes gave it a few rickety squeaks and that was all he needed to bring himself back to those days.

His eyes fluttered shut...there it was...the old drafty Watch house with the paint peeling in places. Fred would be making tea the way it's s'posed to be made, none of those fancy cozies and thin porcelain...Nobby dozing off the rest of the afternoon...Carrot would be off somewhere, probably walking around town memorising everybody's names...and Vimes would just reach for that lower drawer and pull out that bottle of...

Vimes opened his eyes. He saw that he had pulled out his lower drawer, revealing, among a number of things, the unopened bottle of Bearhugger's Whiskey. He looked at it as he would a stranger, and he felt strangely proud. Sometimes, he just had to convince himself that he wasn't that man who literally had his face down the gutter anymore. It's not that he's any different from that man...or any better for that matter...their only difference was that he, the Vimes now, had something to live for and care about.

Now that he thought about it, that probably made all the difference in the world.

Great...now he was brooding, and that made him want to smoke. He fished the silver cigar case from his pocket and pulled out one, lit it, and inhaled sweetly. Nothing like Pantweed's...yeah.

Vimes sat pensively for some moments until someone knocked on the door.

He pulled his feet from the table and piles of paper slid down in an avalanche. "Oh, bugger," he muttered, and he stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth to push up the heap with both hands. "Carm erng," he managed to say, and the door opened to admit Carrot's large frame.

When the mess seemed to have more or less stabilised, Vimes pulled his hands gently away. It teetered for a second or two, but appeared to have changed its mind. He pulled the cigar from his mouth.

"Carrot," Vimes greeted. "Have a seat." He gestured to the chair across his desk, or at least where he thought it was; he really couldn't see because of the bloody heap.

"Thanks, sir." Carrot answered. He appeared to have sat down because Vimes couldn't see him anymore. "Um, sir?" Carrot asked. He sensed that the Captain was looking for an opening among the heap, ducking this way and that.

Vimes pushed a stack a couple of inches to the left, and Carrot peeped across. "Oh, there you are, sir," he said.

"Yes, Captain?"

Carrot's eye looked directly at him. "Just reporting, sir."

Vimes nodded for him to continue; Carrot looked down at his copper's jotter. "Another pile up at King's Bridge, sir," he began. "No recorded casualties, but there were six broken ribs, one stomped bladder and two broken legs."

"Good gods!" Vimes exclaimed. "The poor bleeder's still alive?" He tried to imagine what all those injuries looked like on a person...hell, if that we're him, he'd probably beg to be burked off right away.

Carrot's eye wandered for a moment. "I don't think the injuries were on the same person, sir," Carrot answered. "They have all been taken to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. Um, there were also four injured horses, six overturned carts...total damage probably around five thousand dollars. Most of the carts held produce and-"

Vimes narrowed his eyes; he was trying to recall something. "Hold on," he said, "didn't we have signs put up on that street? Sergeant Colon said we had 'Halt!' signs there all over."

Carrot's head bobbed. "Yessir," he replied, "we did. I'm afraid no one reads them, sir."

"Well, Captain, what do you think we should do?" Vimes challenged.

Carrot cleared his throat and looked down for a few moments. "I'm suggesting we make the signs bigger, sir," he said earnestly.

_Make the signs bigger..._Vimes repeated again and again in his mind. He resisted the urge to facepalm himself, and he knew better than to ask Carrot if he was horsing him around. The man is as straight as they come, and he'd probably tell Vimes that he didn't own a horse, all with a look as innocent as a lamb's. Still one couldn't help but wonder...

Best to just get along with it, Vimes thought. "Alright, Captain," he said, "you have my permission. Make sure you tell Fred as well."

"Will do, sir," Carrot said spiritedly. "Erm, and I also have other news from, um, Grub Street, sir."

Vimes groaned. That street's caused more trouble than unlicensed thievery and non-contractual murders combined. Grub Street is a short thoroughfare between Schooner Way and the Hubwards end of Reeldrag Street, and has been a witness to several turf wars between the Gangsaw Gang and the Llew Llaw Grifters. Gangsaws had Schooner all the way to the Raddled Cabin at Filligrew's while the Grifters had Reeldrag until the other side of New Mead. Grub Street was no-man's land, because aside from the fact that both gangs have been fighting over it for what seemed like forever, there was literally no one there. It used to have a few establishments, an inn or two and a few shops maybe, but they have since hightailed it and set up business somewhere else. Being there in itself is already asking to be hit by a liquor bottle or a lead pipe. In fact, people who need a good beaten-up look (for some reason) just pass by Grub Street for an instant make-over. Both gangs caught wind of this trend, and now they charge ten pence for it of course, depending on which side of the street one is walking towards.

Vimes himself had been there once or twice, for reasons that are now long forgotten, but he recalled that the ten pence charge was definitely a good bargain. The look stays on for days...

"Do they still charge ten pence for a good whack?" Vimes asked reflectively.

Carrot didn't even snigger or stare incredulously. "It's now fifteen pence, sir," he replied. "Plus two for a quality arm-breaking and four for a solid Sunday punch."

Vimes coughed. "That's bloody extortion!" he said. "It used to be plus one for a busted kneecap and _two_ for a solid Sunday punch."

"They had to adjust for inflation, sir," Carrot said. "Liquor bottles and lead pipes get pricier, so does their service, if they want to maintain quality, sir."

Vimes huffed. There was nothing to do about it, he thought. Grub Street, after all, was the best. "What's the trouble up there, anyhow? One of the gangs finally owned the street?" It was next to impossible, of course, but if they could raise the price for a godsdamn beating, anything can happen.

Carrot shook his head. "No, sir," he said. "Just another fight. Bigger than last month's. Some of the kids had to be taken to the clinic right at Schooner's. The injured Grifters, as expected, refused to be treated there."

"Which of the lads did we have there?" Vimes asked. "Where'd they take the Grifters, then?"

"We sent Sergeant Angua and Detritus," Carrot answered. "And some of the lads at the Dolly Sisters Watch house were also called up. They took the Grifters to the clinic at Reeldrag, while the worse cases had to be taken to a hospital."

There were clinics at both ends of Grub Street, for no other reason than that sound business sense dictates that you should be where your market is. Doctors there do very well...most of the time.

"Anything else?" Vimes asked. He didn't even have to ask the reason why the fight started. It's nothing but a time-forged feud between the two gangs, nothing but tradition. Vimes was sure that if he went down there to ask those kids what they were even fighting about, the last thing he would get would be a straight answer that wasn't a shrug or a dumb stare. He knew because he was once a kid in a gang, and those were standard answers. Everyone who joined was there because there was nowhere else to be...

Carrot cleared his throat. "Sergeant Angua reported that there were young dwarfs and trolls in the fight too, sir," he said.

Vimes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What, they have their own gangs now?" It wouldn't be much of a surprise, he thought. Dwarfs and trolls used to stay out of trouble, but their kids got into the Ankh-Morpork spirit much easier. It would've been good, if it wasn't so misplaced. Then again, seeds grow in the soil where they were sown, be it sand or clay or, in this case, the cobbles of the city.

"No, sir," Carrot answered. "It appears that they were either Grifters or Gangsaws."

Vimes's jaw dropped. "Both gangs accept both dwarfs _and_ trolls?" he said. "Amazing..." There really was no other word for it. Amazing how the times are a-changing, while some things remain the same.

"Yes, sir," the Captain said. "They do now. Word on the street, sir, is that they will probably open their hide-outs to other races, even the undead. They say that if the Watch could, then so could they," Carrot paused and adopted a troubled look. His forehead, or the half that Vimes could see, creased with concern. "It's worrying, sir, how they sort of look up to us..."

Vimes didn't know if he would feel proud or ashamed. You could always change things, he thought, but you couldn't always control how. Words get twisted, actions become misunderstood...you just hope that they get the right idea. If they don't, then you should never have expected them to, because people tend to be idiots anyhow.

Vimes smiled half a smile. "Then don't you think we could use this to our advantage, Captain?" he said.

Carrot nodded solemnly and said, "I guess so, sir." He glanced down at his jotter. "Oh, before I forget, sir, there's one more thing-"

"Another unlicensed theft at Scomber?" Vimes guessed.

Carrot's eye widened for a moment. "How did you know, sir?" he asked.

"It's Tuesday," Vimes said. "Scomber always gets robbed by some bloody idiot at Tuesday. Is there anything new?"

"Well, we caught him, sir," Carrot said. "We had the street watched round the clock until the unlicensed theif showed up. He made a run for a nearby alley, but one of the lads got him."

One of the lads, Vimes thought, I probably won't even know his name anymore. "What's the lad's name?"

Carrot checked his jotter. "Lance-Constable Wrack, sir, up at Nap Hill. Anyway," he paused, "we had the thief brought 'round here."

Vimes didn't even know. _You know now_, he said to himself, no use fretting about it. "Well," Vimes said, "did he say?"

Carrot tilted his head closer. "Did he say what, sir?" he asked.

"Did he say why he bloody well robs at Scomber every soddin' Tuesday?" Vimes said with some exasperation.

The Captain drew back. "Not yet, sir," Carrot replied. "Detritus is not yet done interrogating, sir."

Vimes sighed and leaned back on his chair. It ricketed. "Alright, Captain, inform me when he is done, and tell Detritus to...what the hell is that?"

There was a shuffling sound in the hallway, like someone running but didn't weigh enough to make it sound like heavy footsteps. The shuffling appeared to become closer, then it stopped, only to be replaced by an urgent knock on the door.

Vimes heard the door open. "Sir?" said a voice.

He looked at Carrot between the gap. "Captain," he whispered, "can you tell me who it is?"

"It's Corporal Littlebottom, sir," said Carrot quietly.

Vimes nodded and raised his head. "Ah, Corporal," he said towards the general direction of the door, "step inside. Thank you, Carrot, you can go now, erm, if you want."

He saw Carrot again when he drew himself up. The Captain seemed to be giving directions to Cheery, because she sat down and looked at the gap immediately.

"You really ought to do something about this paperwork, sir," said Cheery.

"I'll need a pickaxe and some rope," Vimes said. "Well, what is it, Corporal?"

Cheery looked at him strangely. "There's a coach outside waiting for you, sir," she replied.

"What?" he said, feeling slightly displaced. "Do I have to be somewhere right now? Who are they?"

"They said they're taking you to Camembart Hall, sir, for the Awards Ceremony."

Camembart Hall...where the bloody hell was that? And why are they waiting for him on a coach? "I didn't get a memo for this," he joked.

Cheery laughed nervously. "I think you did, sir," she said.

It was Vimes's turn to laugh nervously. It _was_ very likely that he did. Cheery was right, he ought to do something about this paperwork, right after he could figure out this coach-award business.

Vimes stood up and strode towards the door. "Well, I'd better ask them what it's all about," he said. "I'm coming down."

Cheery followed him. "But I got something on the Cooper boy, sir," she said. "It's important."

Vimes turned to Cheery and gave her a pointed look. "Then you're bloody well coming with me," he said.


	8. Chapter 7

**Hot and Cold**

**Chapter 7**

There is no such thing as refined drunkenness. No going smoothly down the bridge while smiling and exchanging 'how'd-you-do-i'm-fine-thank-yous'.

Getting drunk, for anyone who thought it was serious business, was more like knocking down the trestles of the bridge one by one, until everything falls down on a river of liquid sunshine and there is no more bridge, thank you.

Angela Wishbone sat on an empty stool at the Mended Drum. It was no place for ladies, she knew, but tonight everything could just go to the blazes. "Jackamill's Black-out, please, thank you," she told the barkeeper.

The man pushed a small glass towards her. It was filled with a mucky-looking liquid that would score high on suspended solids. She slugged it and felt it go down her throat. It went down scraping, kicking and screaming. She made a face. "Ack," she sputtered. "This thing should be illegal, do you know that?"

The barkeep smiled broadly. "Funny you should say that, miss," he answered. "I had someone come by here last week saying that they're tryna make the distribution of Black-out illegal throughout the city. I says 'Why?' and then the bloke says that it causes 'temporary or permanent unconsciousness, suppurating lesions and incurable blindness'. Don't know much about suppuratin' things, miss, but I do know about the rest, so I tells him that if it didn't do them things, then we can't call it Black-out anymore, can we? And no one likes fibs when it comes to drinking, no ma'am, I've seen too many sad and sorry sights when people start lyin' in here. This place might as well be the very house of Truth, and the drink does exactly what it says and nothin' more."

_Boy, he seems to be in a talkative mood today..._

Angela's face was blank as the he chaffered on. "Course, miss, they had to do somethin' 'bout it. Heard they changed something with the prow-cess of making Black-out, so now there's only a sixty-eight percent chance of blindness and a fifty-two percent chance of permanent unconsciousness," the bartender paused as he considered the fact glumly. "Wasn't proud of that, miss, but we do what we can to get by, and now I've thought about it, the Blackout reg'lars can come back because they're alive, and that makes for better business."

A second after he stopped speaking, the man a couple of stools away from her started sputtering and coughing. The patron beside him helpfully slapped him on the back, but that must have whacked all the air out of his lungs, and the man desperately clutched at his throat. They heard the man eke out 'Can'tsee...can'tsee!' hoarsely before his eyes rolled to the back of his dead and he fell down sideways on the slough that made up the floor of the Mended Drum. Angela saw that the man's drink was the same mucky brown liquid as hers.

The barkeep shrugged. "Still happens," he said offhandedly. "Poncy! There's another one here! You'd better come out!"

She heard a shuffle from the back door, a loud clatter, and then a string of curses emanated from within. An old man came out, with stringy gray hair, a splendid stoop and a funny eye, if a half-shut eye was funny. He had a limp, of course he had a limp.

"Dagnabbit durn bloody drunks can't keep erm drinks down," Poncy muttered. "Keeps ern dyin', buggers." He took the permanently unconscious man by the back of his collar and dragged him into the back room, muttering a litany of curses all the while. Those who were still sober to a degree had tensed, fearing that they might be the next one to be dragged by Poncy to the back room. Those who were sufficiently cockeyed, of course, slammed back their drinks like an impenetrable shield in a field of battle.

Angela turned to the barkeeper. "Another Black-out then, thanks," she said with a smile.

He placed another glass in front her. "Happy to oblige," he replied with a wink. The lady had a deathwish, must be, but then again she was paying him while wishing for it...

Angela shoved the drink into her gullet. She could swear that it sizzled in her throat before it did something irreparable to her guts. She sat still for a moment, contemplating the state of her viscerals, then thought long and hard about what just happened.

_Shit_, Angela thought. Shit, shit, _shit_. She repeated the word again and again in her head until it sounded like something you'd put in a chowder. She was angry, that much was obvious, but at what? And with whom?

Vetinari. Tubman. Porbeagle. Her father...herself.

It wouldn't take a garden-variety moron to figure out that Vetinari knew about her father's letter beforehand. Tubman and Porbeagle must've gone to the Palace to reach an agreement with the Patrician before they called for her. They made her feel so foolish, stubbornly defending something that they already knew was wrong. They should've told her...warned her...instead they had to put on that ridiculous show at her expense, and now she felt like a prime idiot. But Porbeagle /did/ try to warn her; it was her who didn't want to listen. Gods, everything was so buggered up...

Then there was the Patrician. He was a sly bastard, she'd give him that. What did he have to do with it anyway? First he tells her that she had every right to take over the company, then threatens her if she tries to do anything funny, if a sore bruise were funny. On the other hand, he did buy the company and saved her family from an enormous amount of debt. But therein lay the problem...why? Why did he buy it? Everyone knew that Lord Vetinari is from one of the oldest and richest families in Ankh-Morpork; he probably used ground gold bullions for his bath salts, which wouldn't be the weirdest rumour about him out there, but still. What did he stand to gain by entangling himself in the affairs of the middle-class?

Angela turned the empty glass again and again between her hands...

She wouldn't have been so mad at Lord Vetinari if he weren't making such an active effort to be _disliked_. It was probably his management style, which was odd, but it did give him full license to wield those saucy eyebrows...ye gods. But despite saving her from financial ruin, he was still part of the _cirque de chouse_ that performed the dumb trick on her, and therefore she had every right to be more than miffed with him.

Somewhere on the other side of the pub, an argument began to erupt, and those less inclined to take part in tonight's brawl moved to the outer borders. A broad man sat beside Angela, but she ignored him. Her mind was busy...

Porbeagle and Tubman. It wasn't their fault, she knew, and that made her more pissed off. They were just doing their job by executing her father's wishes. The fact that they did try to inform her thrice about it just saved them from any sort of blame. Still, couldn't they have sold the box company to anyone _other_ than the Patrician? The whole thing made her feel uneasy, like the feeling you get when you boil an egg for what you think was enough time, then you crack it open and see the runny yolk...the feeling that something's not quite finished...

The argument had turned into an all-out brawl. Someone tried putting some formality into the thing and had even set up a tally board by the ornamental kegs, but rather than keeping score, it almost always causes another brawl.

Angela thought about her father, and couldn't help but bristle at his memory. It _was_ her secret hope to take over the company someday, to turn it around and make cardboard boxes popular again, if not in Ankh-Morpork, then in some other country that would appreciate lightweight storage material. Pa didn't bother teaching her about the manufactory, didn't bother with any of them, in fact, so she tried reading all those books...hoping that one day her father would find that she was worthy...

...which he didn't. He didn't even bother giving her a chance, didn't even bother selling it; he just gave it away, like that. But despite how it prickled Angela, she sensed that her father was only trying to avoid a disaster. If he knew that she would pull out the exact move that she just did, then giving the company to the Guild was the only way to make sure that she didn't. Good going Pa, she thought, but you left us with nothing to go by...

And that was the truth. They did have nothing. Duncehat barely made anything for himself, Hardhat was perennially soused, and she had little to no job prospects here in Ankh-Morpork. But if Duncehat knew people at Pseudopolis, she could probably do well as a high-risk trader if she tried hard enough, there was nothing to it. Somehow, she'll be able to see tomorrow...

"What have I got going here, anyhow?" She said aloud to herself, as humans like to do when they are scheming.

_"Yeah, what have you got going here, anyhow?"_ A voice garbled, which sounded like a distant, disembodied echo.

"Nothing," she continued. "The future is out there...outside the city...yes, yes...I could probably pack as soon as I come home..."

_"That's right,"_ the voice said, _"pack as soon as you come home."_

"Then I'll ask Duncehat to take me along the bandwagon. He could recommend me to his ring."

_"Yeah, ask Donesat to take you along..."_ the voice echoed.

Angela nodded to herself. "Then I'd make money soon enough," she said brightly, "and I'll have mum sent over to Pseudopolis, hey, maybe even get Hardhat to be on the wagon too..."

_"...er, somethin' 'bout your mum...and wagons...",_ the voice said inaccurately.

"We could start over there again, brand new and all, " she said.

_"Yeah, brand new and all..."_

"Then we could get a better house..." Angela said wistfully.

_"A better house..."_ the voice echoed.

"With a good door..."

_"Pretty hinges..."_

"...and better windows..."

_"...with tinted panes..."_

"What?" Angela asked.

"Erm, just double glazing then?" the voice said.

Angela turned to the source of the voice, and the disembodied echo turned out to be from the corpulent man beside her. He was definitely older than Angela, and had the appearance of a well-fed seal. He also had a graying, unkempt moustache, and a look on his eyes that suggested that everything wasn't quite _there_.

"How do you do _that_?" Angela asked.

The man stared at her openly. "Do what?" he said.

"The disembodied echo," she said. "It sounded like it came from everywhere."

He shook his head innocently. "I don't think I know what you're talking about."

"Look," she said impatiently, "can you just say that last bit...about the tinted panes-"

_"...with tinted panes..."_ the disembodied voice said.

"That!" Angela exclaimed. "Gods..."

The man smiled at her again. "It's a talent," he said. "But technically I just speak out of the corner of my mouth and-"

"Thanks, well, will you knock it off then?" Angela said. "I'm quietly trying to get pissed here."

The echo man had a hurt look on his face. "Oh, what a kind thing to say," he slurred woefully, dragging each word, "when a man's having his last drink."

Angela smiled with only her lips. "Oh, splendid," she said. "Well gulp it down, go home and sleep it off." She pointed her thumb towards the door.

The man's woeful expression did not change. "You wouldn't want to know why I'm having my last drink?" he said glumly.

"Because you just drank your last penny, mister," she said. "That's how everyone gets their last drink."

The man looked down at his glass of whiskey and sighed heavily. "No," he said. "not my last drink for the night..." and when Angela gave her a strange look, he added, "I'm jumping off Brass Bridge later."

The man meant his last drink...for the rest of his life...

"Why not Contact Bridge? It's closer, I think," she said, and when the man gave her a broken look, she raised her eyes to the ceiling in a manner of defeat, "okay, okay...well, what's your name?"

"Sawyer Bones," said the man, "but everyone calls me 'Doc'."

Angela nodded. "Well, Doc," she said cheerfully, "mind telling me why you're having your last drink?"

He turned to her with an enterprising look. "You tell me why you're going to Pseudopolis first," he said, "then I'll tell. Are you running away from something?"

She sighed. "No," she said, pulling at her hair. "I'm not running away from anything. I have nothing here..."

Doc nodded sympathetically. "I guess we've got that in common, then," he said, and he suddenly had a faraway look. "Was going to be a good doctor, you know...bright prospects, bright future...but I ruined my practice..."

Angela looked at him with interest, and Doc picked it up. "I had a great thing going on at Reeldrag Street," he said, and Angela nodded. Doctors there do very well. He continued, "But I sold it...because I wanted to work full-time..."

"On what?" Angela asked.

Doc passed a thick manila envelope to her. She took it, but didn't open it. "What's this?" she said, shaking the envelope.

He chuckled, but it sounded bitter to both of them. "That's the same thing _they_ said," Doc replied, head bowed. "Maybe they're right. I don't know what it is anymore...all I know is that it ruined me. It's not worth it."

While Doc was speaking, Angela gave the envelope a cursory glance. It was bulging with what seemed to be paper...lots of it. There was nothing on the back of the envelope save for an address that said _'Pickering Press, Ankh-Morpork'_ and below it, the word REJECTED in unnecessarily large letters. It was in red, and appeared to be stamped onto the envelope.

"...they told me I shouldn't have quit my day job, but I didn't listen," Doc went on. "They said I was a two-penny hack who couldn't find the nib of a pen if it poked me in the eye."

Angela patted him helpfully on the back. "That's harsh, Doc," she said, for whatever it was worth. "But is it really enough cause to throw yourself onto the Ankh? I mean," she paused, "that's a pretty permanent thing right there..."

Doc looked at her despairingly. "You wouldn't understand," he said with a broken voice, "they've done this twenty times! I've probably broken the bloody record! I don't think I can stand another rejection. It's taken everything away..."

Angela gave him a sad look that revealed that those words spoke to her as much as it did to him. _There's nothing I can say to that_, Angela thought. They both had everything swept from under their feet, they both had nothing to go on in this city. Maybe Doc was right, maybe they were both running away, her in a physical sense...and him in a more spiritual sense. Well, what was there to it? Everyone knew all roads led away from Ankh-Morpork, they were probably just going with the flow by leaving.

She sighed and thought about Doc's plan. Suicide. That was pretty drastic, but then how many suicides _were_ committed in this city every day? Going to the Shades at night, that was suicide...brawling at the Mended Drum, that's suicide as well...people always made decisions that would deliberately kill them. But offing yourself because of a manila envelope...fine, twenty...but was that right? Was that the price of a life?

Maybe, maybe not. Some people wouldn't have the whole world if it meant their life, others wouldn't need horse spit to give their life or take another's away..._point is_, lives aren't equal...they're only as valuable as people make them out to be. Maybe those envelopes meant the whole world to Doc, and in that case there was nothing she could say...

"Doc, this really meant a lot to you, didn't it?" she asked quietly.

He didn't answer right away, and when he did it was only in a whisper. "It did," he said, and somehow him speaking of it as though it were in the past scared her.

Angela gave him an earnest look. "What are you going to do now?"

He smiled wanly. "I finished my last drink, didn't I?" he replied, and stood up. He offered his hand to her. "Well, pleased to meet you, miss."

She shook hands with him. "Pleased to meet another runaway, Doc," she said. "My name is-"

"Wouldn't make a difference," he said, and he reached into his pockets for change. He put it on the wooden counter. "Make sure you have a good coat, I heard Pseudopolis is wet this time of year."

"And you're going?" she wondered aloud. "Just like that?"

He doffed his beaten hat and tipped it towards her. "Just like that," he paused when he saw her worried look. "If it makes you feel better, I did think long and hard about this."

And just like that, he disappeared behind the door and was gone.

Angela wished she could've said something clever, something meaningful that would make a difference for him, but then she realised that whatever it was that she would have said, she wouldn't believe one word of it.

Angela sighed and stared at her glass, before noticing that the manila envelope sitting unopened in front of her. She did a double take on the door and observed that, yes, Doc was definitely gone, but she could probably catch up to him.

In a hurry, she took some coins from her pocket and slammed it on the table, where they rattled noisily. She took the manila envelope in one hand and stood up, using the other hand to steady herself. Gods, was she more drunk than she thought?

The brawl appeared to have died down, and there was much groaning, spitting, and wiping of blood. Some of the less injured had gone home to sleep it off, while those who were out cold had decided to stay and just sleep it off on the floor. Poncy was busy checking which of the patrons were permanently unconscious.

Angela tried to walk, and she wobbled across the floor, over some bodies, stepped on one and heard air being suddenly expressed. She made her way towards the door, keeled a few steps into the cold night, and then fell asleep before hitting the ground.


	9. Chapter 8

**Hot and Cold**

**Chapter 8**

Vimes strode to the front of Pseudopolis Yard and found that there really was a coach waiting for him. It wasn't from the mansion, that much he knew, and somehow that made it all the worse. The suspicious bastard in him reared its head, tetchy and restless.

A fresh-faced young man in a coachman's hat and tailcoat stood expectantly. When he saw Vimes, the man clicked his heels and saluted. "Afternoon, sir," he said smartly.

Vimes nodded and the man put his hand down swiftly. "Afternoon," said Vimes. "Now d'you mind telling me who the hell you are and where you think you're taking me?"

The coachman flicked his eyes once towards Vimes then continued staring a meter away from him. "I've orders to take you to Camembart Hall, sir, for the awarding of the Literatum Triumvirate." When Vimes's expression remained blank, the man cleared his throat and produced a posh-looking envelope sealed with red wax. "I was told that this might happen, sir, so they had me bring an extra," said the coachman.

Vimes took the envelope and broke the seal. Inside was an invitation that looked strangely familiar. It _was_ familiar because he had read it once, and he most likely dismissed it as one of those things that would happen in the distant future. Coppers like him had a weak sense of hereafter, not when they were too busy with the here-and-now.

But then he remembered. The first invitation was sent to him at home a few weeks ago, but he was so godsdamn exhausted from the Watch that he absent-mindedly passed the letter to Sybil...and there was no doubt that she replied 'yes' for the both of them and now it's come back to haunt him.

Vimes mentally slapped himself on the forehead.

_Well, nothing could be done about it_, thought vimes. He certainly could not refuse to come, not when Sybil was there and expecting him. There were just some things that you don't say no to, not if you want to live, and a riled-up Ramkin is one of them...

He moved forward but the coachman stretched out his hand over the coach door to stop him. "Now, listen here," said Vimes, voice dripping with menace, "I'm coming already, so I don't want any more fooling around."

The coachman gulped nervously but stood his guard. "No, sir," he answered. "Strictly a formal affair, sir, I'm afraid," he paused. "Not a come-as-you-are."

_Bloody wonderful_, Vimes thought. Not only is it a party, it's a ridiculous costume party, and he wasn't invited as the Commander of the City Watch but as the Duke of Ankh. As Commander, everyone knew that he would never stand these kinds of affairs, not while he lived and breathed. But being a duke, that was a different bowl of porridge altogether, 'cos suddenly there were things like Vetinari's_ 'incumbence of societ_y' and Fred's _'nobless obligay'_. He'd be expected to wear the gilded armour and the cloak with the silly trimmings but _not_ the tights. He insisted on that. If they wanted the tights on the party then they might as well take it, because he wasn't going.

"Fine," Vimes said with clenched jaws. "But we're going to Scoone Avenue first. I don't have my fancy cloak with me, so you're gonna have to take me there," he paused and looked the coachman square in the eye, "that is, if you don't mind."

The coachman's adam's apple wobbled in his throat. "Er, yessir, not a problem, sir," he said, and when he realised that his arm was still blocking the way, the offending limb was retracted in a second.

Vimes climbed into the coach. When Cheery tried to follow, the coachman stuck his arm out once more. "You _really_ wouldn't want to do that again," Vimes said to the coachman. "You might accidentally break your arm when I hit it with the coach door."

The coachman removed his arm and put it behind his back protectively. "Take it easy," Vimes said dryly, "and let her in, she's with me."

Despite Vimes's words, Cheery still stepped back timidly. "Er, maybe it can just wait for later, sir," she said.

Vimes beckoned her inside nevertheless. "Now, Corporal, I'll have none of that," he said. "Our good man here will have you dropped off on the way back, won't you, good chap?" Vimes grinned at the coachman humorlessly, and the coachman, in turn, bobbed his head rapidly several times. "See?" Vimes said.

Cheery appeared to have changed her mind and went up the coach to sit beside Vimes. The coachman, on the other hand, sat carefully on the other side. There was the sound of a whip cracking and the coach began to move.

Inside, the coachman was careful to avoid Vimes's gaze, but he was in rotten luck, because Vimes was in the mood for a round of questions-and-answers. He gave the man his beadiest glare and said, in a tone that could rake over wet soil, "So...what's your name, lad?"

The coachman cleared his throat. "Erm, A-abner...sir," he squeaked.

"Abner," Vimes said slowly, not taking his eyes off the coachman for one second, "Now what made you think that you can drag the Commander of the City Watch from his office, away from his duties, and into some ring-around-the-rosy in silly hats and wrong-cut tights scuttering about nibbling on food bits no bigger than my thumb walking like I have the Patrician's cane up my arse?"

Abner took a moment to hear the rest of the sentence, and when he did, his only reply was, "Uh, sir?" and a puzzled look.

Vimes sighed and leaned wearily on the backrest. "Who sent you, lad?" he said, and when Abner kept gazing nervously out the window, he continued. "Well, can't you take it easy a bit? I can see they had your screws on too tight..."

Abner took a deep breath. "Yes, sir...no sir...I mean, they haven't screwed me on tight," he said, no longer as shaky. "It was Lord Rompus who called for me, sir. It seems that he and the Patrician wanted you at the ceremony...and Lady Ramkin, too. They told me to fetch you, sir, and they said that the Duke of Ankh can not miss it for the world. So you see..."

"Yes, yes," Vimes said, "I get the point. They've ganged up on me."

And it wouldn't be the first time too. Vetinari knew that he only need come to Sybil to get Vimes to do the things he wouldn't for the life of him do. The man's positively mercenary in more ways than one. And then there were the words: _Can not miss it for the world_. Note that it's _can not_, not _can't_...meaning his absence would not only warrant a casual remark and a _blip_ at the society pages. There would be consequences.

They forgot one thing, though, and that was the fundamental fact that Vimes was _Vimes_, who, come hell or high water, would find a way to wriggle himself out of a nasty tangle. And what a nasty tangle indeed this was.

That was why he brought Cheery along.

"Corporal," Vimes said, turning to Cheery with a little more torque than necessary, "What news did you say you have?"

It was not unusual for Vimes to rattle off questions in the most random of times. The Watch worked 'round the clock, and he was not above interrupting his Watchmen during teatimes and breaks if it had to do with an investigation, and that meant working lunches and working coach rides as well. Once, he had followed a Constable to the privy when he, that is the Constable, couldn't hold it in anymore during an important report.

Cheery, who had been quiet so far, had been collecting her thoughts long enough. "Well, we've got the Cooper boy off the river the other day, sir, but you know that," Cheery began. "Anyway, I had him taken down to the cellar at Pseudopolis Yard, as you said, and I had the body examined more closely with Igor's help."

"What did you find out?" Vimes said. "Something pointing to the murderer?"

Cheery was swinging her legs. "Nothing so specific sir," she said. "But we saw that he had died of strangulation by garrote."

Vimes was about to ask a question when Cheery beat him to it. "It _was_ very late in the night when we retrieved the body, sir, so we couldn't have noticed," she said, and Vimes nodded. "Very fine piece of wire or string it was, too. Anyhow, we thought that was it when Igor noticed something on the boy's fingertips. At first, we thought it was this white powder..."

"Slunkie?" said Vimes. Not one of the more popular troll drugs, he knew. It was more expensive than Slab, which was the favorite among gutter trolls. He heard that it had effects similar to squeezing oneself into a fine mesh strainer, followed by the sensation of being a pebble inside a maracas being shaken by a spastic monkey.

Question was, how does a young man get involved with troll drugs? He'd never heard of any of the 'Big Bad Esses' having an effect on humans. It wasn't a matter of trying, because there was no doubt that there was some bloody idiot in Ankh-Morpork who had already tried troll drugs; his experience as a copper could say that much. 'Cos when you stick a bunch of people together and force them to live in the same little space and breath in the same stale air, some of them would inevitably do the dumbest things. The point was, if they did, Vimes would certainly know about it.

Cheery shook her head. "That's exactly what I thought, sir," she said. "I thought it had something to do with drugs...maybe the boy had a scuffle with a dealer, which, if so, would rule out trolls because they don't do strangulation. But then I had it tested, and, well...it didn't turn out to be Slunkie at all..."

"Not Slunkie?" Vimes said. "Well what is it? Slake?"

"No, sir," Cheery said.

"Slam?" he said.

"No, sir."

"Well, you just nod your head...er...Slam-bang, Slapper, Slate...Slick...erm, Slippy,Slope...Slog, Slug...no? None of those?" Vimes drew back in surprise. "It's probably bloody talcum powder then," he joked.

"Close enough, sir," Cheery said in a sardonic tone. "It was fine salt."

"Salt?" he said. "That's new." Vimes noted that Cheery was still trying hard to contain her enthusiasm, which only meant that there was something more. "Well, Cheery," he said, "out with it."

"We took some scrapings from the nails, sir," Cheery said brightly, "for the testing, but we found something else aside from the salt...there were bits of skin too."

_Skin...bits of skin_, Vimes thought. Young Cooper most likely fought back. Boy gets strangled, boy struggles...he claws at his killer, takes a bit of skin...takes a lot of salt with him, too. Now where could a lot of salt be found?

Vimes drummed his fingers on his knee for some moment and contemplated some more. A few minutes passed and the coach jerked up and down on gravel before coming to a direct halt in front of the Ramkin Mansion at Scoone Avenue. Vimes sat still, unmoving.

"Sir?" Cheery said. No response.

"Sir Samuel?" Abner said, shaking him lightly. "We're here, sir."

Vimes jolted back to reality. "Huh," he said with a measure of surprise, "We're here?"

"I think so, sir," said Cheery. "Unless we ended up on the wrong block."

Vimes alighted the coach. "Very funny, Corporal. Now you...and you...wait here and I'll go get changed," Vimes said, before disappearing into the house.

Abner turned to Cheery. "Er, does he always-" Abner said.

Cheery shrugged. "Yeah, coppers," she said, still staring at the door. "You should hear him when he orders lunch at Harga's."

When Vimes returned, he had already donned the shiny armour, the fancy cloak and the feathered helmet. He _gleamed_. The rest of him, however, was offset by the darkness of his expression.

"Not-a-word," Vimes growled, and stormed past Cheery and Abner. He boarded the coach and sat down with a huff.

"Wasn't gonna say anything, sir," Cheery said, taking his place beside Vimes.

Abner got on last, and he rapped the coach as a signal that they were good to go. The horses trotted on and they moved forward. They remained quiet for a while; Cheery and Abner distracted themselves with the view by the window while Vimes remained deep in thought.

They were about to turn the corner that led to Pseudopolis Yard when Cheery spoke. "Er, sir?" she said.

Vimes turned towards her. "Yes, Corporal?" He answered.

"You have any orders, sir, for when I return to the Yard?"

Vimes didn't answer for a moment, but instead tugged at his chin. "Hum," he said. "I might, yes...well, I want you to speak to Carrot and tell him to get a team together and go take a look around the salt merchants throughout the city, starting with those closest to the Coopers' house." Vimes paused and tapped at his knee. "Oh, and go get someone to speak to the boy's father again, but this time ask about anything that might tie the boy up to...er, salt." He sighed and shook his head. "We'll make heads-or-tails with this business yet, Corporal, we just have to find the right _angles_."

"I'm sure we will, sir," Cheery said with a nod. "I'll have Corporal Shoe over to the Coopers' then, sir. He was the one who spoke to the father before," she went on.

Vimes approved with a tilt of his head. "Good," said Vimes. "And another thing, have Igor come by my office...when I get back. I want to speak to him."

"Alright, sir...anything else?" Cheery said.

Vimes seemed to hesitate, but he let it go in a moment. "One last thing, Cheery," Vimes said urgently. "Be sure to get our friend at the first cell by seven this evening."

Cheery looked at Vimes with a measure of reasonable doubt. "Say that again, sir?" she said, head tilted in question.

"The _man_," Vimes said with some emphasis, "at the first cell has to be _let go_ by seven _tonight_."

Cheery raised an insubordinate eyebrow; Vimes hoped Abner missed it. "But, sir, we don't have-" she said, but Vimes interrupted him.

"Exactly!" Vimes said, a little more intensely than intended. "We don't have anything on him, so just come by the _cell_ at seven, take him out and let him go...any questions?"

Cheery took a moment, but when realization finally dawned, her face went bright as a sunbeam on a patch of earth. She was about to speak when Vimes gave her a meaningful look and an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

"Right, sir, got it," Cheery said brightly. "At seven I'll have to go down to the first cell, that is, at the Yard...open it up...take our friend out...and let him go."

"The long and short of it, Corporal, yes," Vimes said.

Cheery twiddled her thumbs. "But, sir, what if," she paused, "what if they ask me _why_?"

Vimes gave her a look. "What do you mean _'if they ask'_?" he said. "Then tell them a six, you know that, and they won't ask anymore."

"Right you are, sir," Cheery said with a somewhat satisfied look.

The coach stopped by in front of Pseudopolis Yard. Abner opened the door for Cheery, and she hopped to the ground. When she turned around, she gave Vimes a quick salute before making a run for the entrance.

The coach rattled and left a trail of dust.

Vimes settled more comfortably into the seat and thought about the prospect of another dismal party. He ought to have been used to it by now, he knew, but there are just some things in life that people aren't built to stand. As a copper, he was used to searching for truth, hoping in the end to find some semblance of justice. But when he is in a roomful of prating nobs, the sheer speed and levity at which lies were told was enough to give him a headache in seconds.

He turned to find Abner with a look on his face.

"What are you so smug about?" Vimes asked.

Abner shrugged. "Nothing, sir," he said. "Not when I see you and her making such an effort back there." When Vimes's expression remained neutral, he continued. "The _man_, the _cell_? She's gonna bust you out of the ceremony later, isn't she?"

If Vimes was surprised, he certainly didn't let it show. "So what if she is?" he said.

Abner gave a weak smile. "I just want to say that you needn't have bothered speaking in code, sir," he said reassuringly.

"How would I know if you wouldn't rat me out to your master, eh?" Vimes asked.

The coachman met his eye. "It's my job to take you to the Hall, sir," he said. "Not to keep you in it. My job's much easier, that's for certain. As for your Corporal, I'm sure she could do a good six."

Vimes's jaw dropped. "You don't happen to work for me, do you?" he said, surprised.

"No, sir," Abner said. "That'd be my brother. He's the copper in the fam'ly."

"Oh, and he's ratting out our Watch code isn't he?" Vimes accused. "I'll have none of that!"

Abner drew back in his seat. "To be fair, sir," said he in a small voice, "I think the whole city knows. Now, I wouldn't overstep my boundaries, sir, but I s'pose you could have the code shuffled every few weeks or so, 'cos when you have your coppers encountering and communicating with criminals on a daily basis, it'd take a week before they all knew that 'six' meant 'lie' and 'seven' meant a 'swift bop with a truncheon'."

Vimes, to his own surprise, listened intently. He felt a little regret, for himself, for letting everything get out of proportion. It was good, he admitted, to have a fully-functioning Watch in the city, but sometimes he wanted nothing more than to have his ear on the ground again. And his boots...come to that.

Vimes drew himself up. "Oh yeah, if you seem to know so much, why don't you make it official then?" he challenged.

Abner was silent. When he spoke, it came out sounding almost like a squeak. "Are you...offering me a job, sir?" he said in wonder.

Vimes smirked. "Maybe," he said.

Whatever brightness Abner had suddenly faded in an instant. "Oh," he said, as though he remembered something. "Couldn't take it, sir. Got a contract with the Guild. I can't break it, not on my life, sir.

"Wasn't gonna give it to you, anyhow," Vimes said, a little bitterly. He could sense that the lad had brains, and he was wasting it on some stupid mindless job fetching people in carriages. "And what sort of Guild had indentured coachmen? Couldn't you come to an arrangement if you talk them into it?"

Abner's eyes widened. "Oh no, sir," he said, "not _this_ guild. The Guild of Arts and Letters have very strict policies, and they have their ways of sticking to it."

Vimes's mind rolled inside his head. _Guild of Arts and Letters_...now what the hell was that? That's what it said on the invitation, he knew, but he thought it was just another hobnobbing with the nobs of the city...

The coachman seemed to have read his mind. "The Guild guards the Literature and the Arts of Ankh-Morpork, sir," he said. "'S what it says on the pamphlet, at least."

"Pamphlet," Vimes said pointedly.

"They give out some...to those who, er, come to visit them...I think, sir." Abner said.

Vimes had never heard of the Guild. "Since when?" he said. "Since yesterday?"

Abner shook his head. "No, sir!" he said. "The Guild has been around since the monarchy. By royal sanction, sir."

"Then where's their Guild house, eh?" Vimes said. "Behind the 'Aa' to 'Ac' bookshelf at the Library's non-extant fiction section?"

Abner looked like he was word short of being offended. "I told you, sir," he said wearily. "It's at Camembart Hall at Quarteredman Avenue."

Vimes scoffed. "Yeah, sure, a building I've never heard of in a street I've passed a billion times," he said. "And what's this business with the Liter-wossnames, anyhow?"

Abner sighed. "Literatum Triumvirate, sir," he said.

"That," Vimes said, suddenly feeling silly for knowing so little. "They award it, eh?"

Abner nodded. "It's an award, sir," he replied. "And an appointment. Every half a century the Guild calls three of the best literary writers in Ankh-Morpork, their whole body of work is judged, and, if they are worthy, they are inducted into the Hall of Triumvirates, as well as the Guild Council. It's a great honor, sir, to have it."

"Oh," Vimes said. His knowledge of Literature began and ended with the books he read before he joined the Watch, which were mostly children's stories, fables and such. The last book he read was the 'Laws of Ankh-Morpork' and it shamed him to admit that he gave up on the book halfway. Then again, most of the citizens in the city knew about books by the feel of it on their bum...especially now that toilet paper had gotten expensive while Grandpa's old books just sat in the attic.

_So_, Vimes thought, they want him to appear at some swanky awards ceremony given once in a lifetime. Why did he feel that it would be full of pretentious sods?

The coach eventually slowed down and came to a halt on the turnwise end of Quarteredman Avenue, beside a fountain that featured a figure of a muscled young man steadily piddling on a stair of sculptured shells. Abner leaned to the window and pointed, "This, sir, is Camembart Hall."

Vimes climbed down the carriage and looked at the building. "This is the Guild House?" he said in genuine surprise.

"Built especially for the Guild, sir," Abner said.

Vimes _had_ seen the building before, only he didn't notice it. It was like the others in the street: a bit posh and deteriorated somewhat by age. The whole of Quarteredman Avenue was built end-to-end that way; the style was dominantly Ephebian, and, if Ankh-Morpork had a true Hall of Justice, it would be located there. Something about the ivory white columns just made it right.

He was sure, however, that the building Abner pointed to had been abandoned for a long time. He didn't look in, of course. He just knew, like everyone else, that nobody ever went in anymore and the lights were never lit at night.

He turned to Abner. "But I always thought it was just an odd abandoned building!" he said. "I never saw anyone come in or leave...and at night it's always dark."

"They come through the back, sir," Abner said, "and, er, they keep early hours."

"Oh," Vimes said, still wondering at the building's facade and the true but nevertheless strange thought that Ankh-Morpork, in all probability, still had the ability to surprise him.

Abner coughed behind him. "Er, sir?" he said. "If you don't mind me reminding you, sir, but I think they're waiting for you inside. We have to take you to the back...if you'll just step in the coach."

"No, I know my way behind that alley," Vimes said. "But thank you, Abner."

"Just doing my job, sir," he said.

Vimes shook his head. "No, for reminding me that life's still full of surprises."

The coachman watched as Vimes walked and disappeared through the alley that would take him to the back, then, when the man was gone, he went back to the coach and hopped up beside the driver.

"You wouldn't believe it," Abner said, "but Commander Vimes wot just offered me a job in the Watch."

"Tha's nice, Abner," the driver said. "Too bad you couldn't take it. Rompus'll be keen on you, if you did."

Abner looked down sadly. "I know," he said, "I know. Would've been great, though."

A whip cracked in the silence of the street, and the coach wheels turned over the cobbles in the fading afternoon.

**A/N: **_There's still a second part for this guys...that means more Vimes. But it's all still in here *taps temple*. Also, school has started over here and I have to get cracking on my biology thesis, because...College. That means, I'll be cracking like mad to update this thing. I do know that there are some of you out there who are following this thing (uh...I think), so I'm doing this for you guys. I'll keep the story alive to the best of my ability._


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